


Inside the River

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Dry Humping, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Massage, Masturbation, Mild foodsmut, Romance, Slow Burn, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:44:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 44,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starfleet sends Jim a spouse and an oddly vacant honeymoon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gold

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for mightymads’ “arranged marriage” answer to my AU request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). The **rating will increase** with future chapters.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He successfully puts it off for a year before Starfleet catches up with him. Ambassadors start pushing through the forms for him to fill out, admirals start denying him the better missions until _he does his duty_ , and finally, he’s told that if he doesn’t intend to follow tradition, he’ll either be demoted back to commander or be sent a partner sight unseen. 

After a good deal of knowing grins from his crew—especially Uhura, who’s had to pass along his excuses one too many times—Jim accepts his fate. He orders up a hot chocolate from the mess hall and takes it back to his quarters, resisting Scotty and Bones’ push for alcohol—it wouldn’t be wise to do this inebriated. He takes a seat at his desk coldly sober and calls up the files Uhura’s been steadily sending him for a week, and he finally combs through them. 

The first section is easy enough. Starfleet has his basic information. Some knowing admiral has already filled out several spaces—his height, weight, species: all the things already on his file. What’s left are the more subjective things—what he considers his best traits, what he considers his worst, his past dating history and, most dauntingly, why he accepted a command knowing what Starfleet does to captains. It’s tempting to write that he simply couldn’t do anything else—he _belongs_ in the captain’s chair. Finally, he writes a generic acceptance of Starfleet conditions: he understands their logic, though it’s a stretch, and he’ll take his fate on that merit. 

The second section is a different matter entirely. It’s all preferences of partner. He’ll be given, of course, what’s available from the current pool of commanders being promoted to senior officers. Considering the Enterprise’s current staffing, it’s likely he’ll be sent someone deserving of a first officer position. Under normal circumstances, if no one meeting his specifications were available, he’d likely be able to wait. As he’s already waited a year, Jim imagines he’ll be immediately assigned the first name on the roster.

He reads all the sections anyway, though he answers very sparsely. He doesn’t have a particular preference for gender. He’d prefer someone sexual but isn’t picky about the extent of it—he figures he’ll still have his hand. He doesn’t want to specify temperament—it seems too much like designing a mate on the computer. He’d prefer someone humanoid, but beyond that, he doesn’t care where their eyes are on their head or how many limbs they have—in a way, he realizes, he wants to be _surprised_.

But he’s also anxious about being assigned something so vital as a spouse by the brass, when he’s always enjoyed naturally _falling_ into love. 

If there were another Starfleet representative in his quarters, that officer would likely repeat what he knows: Starfleet captaincy comes with three options. Prior marriage, testimony of sexual and romantic disinterest in partnership, or an arranged marriage per long-standing tradition. In theory, it’ll keep the captain grounded, provide oft-needed emotional release, and, most importantly, prevent awkward diplomatic incidents with non-approved, non-Federation aliens. 

Jim’s been tempted once or twice. He’s never wanted to _marry_ one, but he’s considered ill-matched affairs. As he finishes the forms, he wonders just how well-matched this could possibly be. Starfleet would be the first to pragmatically state that not all marriages need be based on love, but it’s still difficult for Jim to hit the ‘send’ key.

But he loves the Enterprise. He can _feel_ the subtle hum of the deck plates beneath the legs of his chair. And if he needs a stranger in his bed to keep this glorious creature under his command, so be it. 

For one fleeting moment, his mind runs again over his own senior staff—could he marry Sulu? Scotty? _Bones_? He snorts to himself and transmits the file. At least if it turns out that bad, he’ll have friends with common ground to drink with.

* * *

It takes Starfleet precisely one week to send confirmation of a match. Uhura can’t keep the smile off her face as she discreetly lets Jim know. He wrinkles his nose and considers calling Bones to the bridge to gripe with but finally just nods. Coordinates for a rendezvous with the Intrepid in nine days are sent to the helm. Sulu stifles a grin as he keys them in, then announces, “They’re sending us to Mrennenimus Prime, Captain.”

Jim leans back in his chair, sighs, and wonders if he dares to drum up a quick affair with any crewmembers that’ll have him before it’s too late. He wishes he’d stated polyamorous intent on his forms, just in case. 

As if to help, Uhura chimes in, “It’s supposed to be a very peaceful planet with lovely weather.”

It’s also on the list of brand-new planets explorer vessels have just discovered, per more tradition: ship the couple off for shore leave on a neutral planet away from Federation stresses. In theory, it lends to ‘bonding time.’

In practice, it forces Jim off his bridge onto new territory without his regular crew’s support, and, likely thanks to his year of stalling, he won’t even have the trip to the planet most do to get to know their spouse. It sounds like they’ll rendezvous, shake hands, then immediately beam down for the wedding. In some ways, he’s glad tradition will spare him the embarrassment of having his crew for witnesses—they’ll be gone for a week while he has his ‘honeymoon.’ 

After a few minutes of contemplating the doom of his love life, and thankfully no more words of comfort from the bridge crew, Jim forces himself to move. He rises from his chair as casually as he can and strolls to Uhura’s station to quietly ask, “Did they send any more information?”

“The relevant party will have their bags ready,” Uhura recites, still unable to hide her mirth.

Jim repeats blandly, “The relevant party?”

“The Intrepid _is_ a Vulcan ship, sir,” she reminds him. When he just shakes his head, she takes pity on him and asks, “Shall I request any more specifics on their passenger?”

Jim opens his mouth to say yes but ultimately closes it. He’s not sure he wants to know. She tells him instead, “I’m sure ‘the relevant party’ will be satisfactory, sir.”

He gives her a warning look and wanders back to his seat.

* * *

Bones comes with him to the transporter room, even though Bones hates few things more than dress uniforms. As they’re already in orbit around their destination, greeting the new arrival aboard the Enterprise is merely a formality. Though his future partner can hardly protest anyway, Jim does his best to look presentable. He’s combed his hair and smoothed everything into place. He’s spent more time in the past week in the gym with Sulu than he’d like to admit. Yet for all he knows, his partner will prefer soft flesh to hard muscle. Or perhaps have no interest in body image at all. Perhaps he’ll wind up with a fuzzy Tellarite attracted primarily to vicious arguments. He already regrets not simply writing ‘human woman’ on his request form. The luggage bag at his side feels inordinately heavy. 

At attention by the controls—manned by Kyle, since Jim couldn’t face Scotty right now—Jim mutters under his breath, “What a stupid tradition.”

“You knew it when you signed up,” Bones answers, doing nothing to conceal his amusement. Jim shoots him a look, but Bones simply tells him, “ _You_ were stupid. I told you you should’ve been more specific.”

Jim knows it and shakes his head, admitting, “I should’ve at least had them send me a file on my new life partner.”

Bones snorts. “Might not’ve helped anyway. I chose my wife the regular way, and look where I ended up.”

“Remind me when I get back to recommend we instate arranged marriages for CMOs.”

Though they both knows Jim was teasing, Bones hisses, “Don’t you dare.” Jim has time for one deliberate _I dare_ look before the transporter hums, and the familiar coloured dots coalesce over the platform. All jokes slide right out of Jim; he stands straighter than he ever has in his life.

A figure forms, the shape humanoid, about as tall as Jim, and it solidify into what Jim, at first, thinks is a human.

Then it’s done, and he spots the ears, and he realizes Starfleet’s sent him a _Vulcan_.

They sent their most unconventional, roguish captain a walking computer. The irony isn’t lost on him. The Vulcan bears a typical passive expression and posture even tighter than Jim’s. He glances first at Bones, then Jim, and his eyes stop there.

For that first second, Jim’s whole impression changes. He takes in, in one wild rush, everything about the man he’ll spend the rest of his life with: the long, taut build, the pale, almost yellowish skin, the black bowl cut and dark eyes, the pointed eyebrows and the delicate bluish tint beneath them, the high cheekbones and strong cut of his jaw, the bow curve to his pink lips. He’s a Vulcan male in a regular blue tunic, and all Jim can think for several bizarre milliseconds is that he’s distinctly _handsome_.

He looks at Jim as though there’s no one else in the room. He doesn’t look up and down Jim: just holds Jim’s gaze. The two of them stare at one another, Jim’s mind conversely frozen and reeling, until Bones coughs. 

Then Jim shakes himself out of his reverie and blurts, uncharacteristically inelegantly, “I’m Captain James T. Kirk. Welcome aboard.”

The Vulcan nods his head lightly and returns, “I am Commander Spock.” In true Vulcan fashion, he doesn’t offer the typical gratitude for the welcome. He doesn’t move from the platform. A regulation duffle bag, exactly like Jim’s, is strung over one shoulder. There’s a brief, awkward moment where Jim wonders how exactly one greets a Vulcan spouse they’ve never met before and comes up with nothing.

Bones, without announcing himself, abruptly says, “Well, this is fun.” 

Jim _almost_ wishes he could drag Bones along, half for comfort and half to torture his best friend. He might’ve wholly wished it before. Now, Spock’s at least attractive enough that Jim’s not sure he wants a third wheel around. As Spock seems intent on hiding all traces of personality, looks are all Jim has to go on. 

Finally, he decides if he’s going to spend the rest of his life married to a beautiful stranger, he can at least start it right. He walks forward, at first stiffly, then gaining pace, as though drawn to Spock by magnetic force. He steps up onto the transporter platform, doesn’t stop, and instead leans in—the way he might greet a first date: a kiss on the cheek.

Spock jerks back, leaning at an odd angle to avoid contact with Jim’s lips, and Jim instantly stiffens back up, trying desperately not to turn beet red in front of Bones and Kyle. He hadn’t expected such a sudden movement from Spock’s prior rigidity, and he’s never been spurned so blatantly. He has the distinct urge to apologize, but Spock straightens before he can. 

Then Spock offers two tentative fingers, held together. Jim curiously mirrors the gesture, and Spock brings his hand forward, touching their skin as briefly and feather-light as possible.

It’s enough to send a sudden spark of unbridled _want_ up Jim’s spine. For that single millisecond, Jim feels _whole_ in a way he never has before. Things are right, and perfect, and then the warm hold slips from his mind, and he’s simply _Jim_ again, staring blankly at his future husband. 

There’s a tiny glint of confusion in Spock’s expression, but he says nothing about the contact. Instead, he turns to look at the far wall, and Jim struggles to regain himself, announcing, “Energize.”


	2. Dry Land

They materialize in a concrete courtyard, lined with potted plants and lush trees beyond. The walkway ends on one side in general foliage, blocking off the view, and the other end holds a two-story house. The walls—what few there are—are white, trimmed in thatched grey-brown roofs. Large windows and open doorways dot the haphazard shapes, and the greenery is everywhere. It reminds Jim of a beachside villa, the similarities intensified by the warm temperature and the gentle breeze through the alien faux-palm trees. 

Jim and Spock have only a minute or two to look around before a whistle calls them. They turn in unison to the house, and a humanoid creature darts out from between the decorative columns. The creature jogs towards them, blue-green skin glimmering in the sun.

About a meter away, the alien extends open arms and recites, “Welcome to Mrennenimus Prime, honoured guests. I am she, your guide.” She, without offering any name, swirls back towards the house.

She’s only a head shorter than Jim but significantly larger around the middle, devoid of any hair and wearing a loose-fitting, colourful cloth drawn about her like a dress. She starts walking immediately, and Jim, unable to introduce himself or Spock in turn, follows. Spock falls into step beside him.

Their guide brings them swiftly up the walkway and at a sharp left, along a concrete road set into the grass, and to a rounded doorway, where a crescent cutout serves as a door handle. Drawing it open for them, their guide gestures them inside, announcing, “This will be your home for your stay. Though none of my people have had the opportunity to meet either Terran or Wulcan—the Federation envoy we spoke with was Andorian and Klingon, I believe?—we have done our best to make it suitable.”

Pausing in the hallway, Jim shares a quick look with Spock before their guide turns around. He’d known Federation contact with Mrennenimus was recent, but the fact that they think they met with a Federation ambassador of _Klingon_ descent shows their grasp of that meeting is worse than he’d hoped. As for ‘Wulcan,’ Jim has to wonder if it’s an honest mistake or if Uhura let Chekov send the last transmission. Suddenly, it seems foolish to have not brought a tricorder so he could check for himself their new home’s viability. Hopefully, Spock came better prepared.

Spock doesn’t correct their host, so neither does Jim. Their guide waits as though for questions, then swiftly marches them out into a large living space, complete with comfy-looking couches, wooden floors and plush furnishings. It isn’t that different from what one might find in a luxury vacation home on Earth, but whether or not that’s Mrennenimian standard or prepared for Jim and Spock’s benefit, their guide doesn’t explain.

She points down at the floor, perhaps to indicate the room in general, and tells them, “Your home comprises of relaxation spaces, one library—although we have not yet had a chance to translate any of our works for you—one senohpolyx,” the word seems to completely baffle the universal translator, and out the corner of Jim’s eye, he can see Spock lifting an eyebrow, “one kitchen fully stocked with suitable food and drink for your stay, two guest rooms, two washing rooms, and one love room.” Spock’s second eyebrow joins the first around his hairline, but he remains silent. Jim forces himself to keep a straight face and supposes a _love room_ is meant to be a bedroom for newly weds.

In the following silence, Jim says, “Thank you,” and that spurs their host to resume walking. The living room has several open doorways, but the one they take brings them through another open space with glass walls on one side that give a stunning view of the ocean beyond. It makes Jim’s step falter, but Spock stopping at his side reminds him to move again. They can enjoy the view later. They follow their host into a room full of cabinets that’s likely the kitchen, which she doesn’t explain, and then they’re taken to a door—the first one Jim’s seen inside the house. It has the same groove as the front door, and she slips her four fingers into it to open the door and point at the floor inside.

“The love room,” she says, while Jim eyes the large, square bed against the far wall and the shelving units on a different wall, “should serve your purposes. As we are unaware of which flavours are appealing to Terrans and Wulcans, we have provided a wind range of lubrications that can be found in Federation-Standard labeled jars in the compartment beneath the sleeping mat. I would like to remind you at this time that we are unequipped to deliver Terran or Wulcan young, so if you wish to produce any, we request that you wait the seven nights until your ship and accompanying physicians are available.”

Now it’s a real challenge to keep a straight face, but Jim somehow manages to tell her solemnly, “We’ll restrain ourselves.” He looks at Spock as though for confirmation, but Spock looks even more iron-cast than he did before. It makes Jim wonder if any of those jars have flavours appealing enough to loosen up a very uptight Vulcan, but thinking of testing out _flavoured lube_ on his new, stunningly attractive fiancé isn’t a path he should let his mind go down in public. He forces himself to return his full attention to his guide, who steps back from the bedroom but doesn’t close the door.

“We will be happy to conduct your wedding ceremony by a mixture of our customs—as your Federation suggested—as soon as possible. We will contact you when an officiate is available.”

Again, Jim says, “Thank you,” and Spock says nothing. The host slaps her knuckles against her nose, which means absolutely nothing to Jim, but he guesses might be the Mrennenimian version of a nod. 

A short silence follows, until she asks, “Do you have any questions?”

Jim doesn’t, or at least, can’t think of any at the moment, because he’s busy taking it all in and maybe stealing peripheral looks at Spock. Spock asks, “How may we contact you if we should have further questions?”

Their host stares at Spock for perhaps two minutes, then taps her palm against her nose three times and walks past them. Jim moves to follow, but she turns swiftly and announces, “You may bond now. May your love bear as many or no eggs as you wish.” It feels like a parting statement, and in no time at all, the Mrennenimian is gone, and Jim can hear the front door clicking closed in the distance.

When he concentrates, he can hear the water outside. She never showed them the backyard or said anything about the sea, but Jim imagines the computer—when they find it and if they can translate it—will tell them if it’s swim-worthy or alien-shark-ridden.

The more pressing issue is Commander Spock, whom Jim turns to. With all third parties gone, the two of them are left to look at one another again, Jim still in his dress uniform and Spock in a science officer’s uniform, both toting one bag. Begrudgingly, Jim finds more logic in Starfleet’s procedures—in the alien terrain, Spock, another Federation agent as new to this as Jim, is the only thing _familiar._ They’re a team, now. It’s the two of them against the world. 

When Jim manages to tear his eyes away from the chiseled outline of Spock’s slim face, he gestures into the bedroom and offers, “Wulcans first.”

Spock, as Jim might’ve guessed, gives the joke no acknowledgement. Instead, he adjusts the bag strap over his shoulder and says, “As captain, I believe it would be appropriate for you to take the master bedroom. I will locate one of the guest rooms.”

Or they could share a room. But Jim’s hardly about to push that. He can’t stop himself from frowning, but he leaves it there. 

It occurs to him belatedly that he knows nothing of Spock’s intentions. He’d assumed— _hoped_ —that whoever he got would accept their fate as he did, and they would have, as much as they could, a _marriage_. But perhaps Spock, like Jim, simply wanted a high position in Starfleet regardless of the consequences, but unlike Jim, didn’t expect to follow through with more than the public presentation of a bond. For all Jim knows, Spock wrote on his application: _give me someone who cares about this as little as I do._

They’ll have to discuss it at some point. They need to know what each other wants and expects. For now, Spock moves to leave. 

Jim, on a whim, thrusts out his hand again. He holds his index and middle finger together like he did before. Spock hesitates, but does turn back and reach to brush his fingertips over Jim’s. There’s the same spark as before, the sudden burst of pleasant completeness, and a lingering warmth that makes Jim shiver afterwards. Spock parts his lips, drawing Jim’s eyes to the movement, but then turns almost hastily to leave. Jim’s left alone before the _love room_ , wondering if whatever room Spock finds will come with as many jars of lube.

* * *

It takes little time to unpack and less to change. He didn’t know how his partner would want him to dress, so he went for his own comfort, and now he regrets it. Spock doesn’t seem like the jeans and tee shirt type, but Jim didn’t bring any formal options. A white button up is the closest he can get, but the warm weather dictates the top two buttons undone. At least, if he remembers Vulcan physiology correctly, the temperature will be well suited for Spock. It makes Jim wish it were just that _little bit_ hotter, so Spock would have to dress as skimpily as Jim will have to. 

He isn’t sure where to find Spock, only that he wants to. It doesn’t prove difficult. A simple stroll through the first floor, and he finds Spock in the living room, perched primly on the edge of a white couch. The glass coffee table is as empty as Spock’s hands. Maybe he brought as little to do as Jim did, or maybe, like Jim, he just needs to do a lot of thinking. 

He looks up at Jim’s approach, takes a quick scan of Jim’s new attire, and makes no comment on the change. He’s still in his blue uniform. It makes it easy for Jim to picture him standing, as serious as he is now, on the bridge of a starship. _Jim’s_ starship. It might’ve been better to meet there. Here, in a tropical beach villa, Spock looks vaguely like a fish out of water. 

As Jim strolls around the coffee table to join Spock on the couch, Spock informs him, “There has been no more sign of our guide, but the accommodations, from what I have observed, seem satisfactory.” He says it like a report to a captain, and Jim has difficulty not responding in kind. 

Jim sits as close to Spock as he dares—half an arm’s length away—and quips, “Then all that’s left is to see if the company is, Spock.” Spock quirks an eyebrow, which might signify an understanding of Jim’s humour, or might be something else entirely.

Finally, when it becomes clear Jim isn’t going to make the first move, Spock says simply, “I have no protests at this moment, Captain. ...James.” He seems to struggle with the address, correcting himself, and Jim appreciates that effort.

He still suggests, “Jim.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, so Jim clarifies, “My name. I prefer ‘Jim’ to ‘James.’” 

It’s clear from Spock’s expression that he doesn’t understand, but he still nods. He didn’t give away much else, but Jim supposes ‘no protests’ is an alright start. It could be worse. 

In the resumed awkward silence, he asks, “So... what did you ask for in your forms?”

It’s a fair question, but Spock frowns and doesn’t answer right away. He looks slightly uncomfortable while he thinks, as though he doesn’t want to divulge too much about himself, even though they’re meant to share their lives. Jim doesn’t press him. Jim waits patiently until Spock slowly says, “Someone intelligent and strong enough to endure a Vulcan... mate. As I am not fully fit for another Vulcan, I did suggest a human candidate. One with emotional stability yet an open mind. Someone with alien experience. Someone intellectually stimulating. Complex and... brave.”

He stops there, watching Jim levelly. Jim, somehow, hadn’t expected all that. His first supposition is that he’s been complimented, though Starfleet matched him to those requirements rather than Spock. It’s an interesting combination and not one he would’ve guessed from Spock at first glance. The last word makes Jim wonder if Spock _wanted_ the kind of wildcard he got. Maybe in the same way that Jim needs someone to reel him in, Spock needs someone to push him forward. 

Or maybe Jim’s hoping for too much just because Spock’s handsome and they have inexplicable sparks when their hands collide. 

Then the Vulcan part catches up with him, and Jim means to ask why someone so thoroughly, distinctly _Vulcan_ in every typical way wouldn’t be fit for another of their kind. Before he can, Spock asks, “What did you specify?”

Shrugging, Jim swallows his question. It might be too soon to ask for perceived flaws anyway. He truthfully admits, “Hardly anything.” 

Somehow, without actually moving a single muscle in his face, Spock manages to look disapproving. It makes Jim randomly think of Bones, and he moves them on by noting with what he hopes to be a charming grin, “At least you’re cute.”

Spock’s jaw instantly tightens, and his cheeks flush an abrupt, subtle shade of green that stretches right across his nose. It makes Spock, for all his stern countenance, even more adorable. Jim can feel his grin growing. At least he knows Spock isn’t entirely immune to _all_ of his charm. 

But he’s sure Spock’s embarrassed by the display, so out of empathy for his new life partner, Jim offers a distraction. “So... what should we do first?”

Looking straight at Jim—their eyes locked, drawn again, honed in _just on one another_ —Spock asks, “Do you play chess?”

Grinning all the broader, Jim counters, “Do tribbles purr?”

* * *

Spock brought his own set, one that folds out into the advanced 3D version that Bones rarely wants to play. Jim’s had the occasional game against Scotty, but the first few moves make it abundantly clear how inadequate that practice was. Spock wins the first game easily, and Jim tells himself he’s letting Spock win out of diplomacy.

Of course, he’d like to be able to impress Spock, especially knowing that Spock wanted someone _intellectually stimulating._ He goes all out on the second match, taking longer than usual for his turns and considering all possibilities. They sit across from each other, Jim having pulled up another couch, and both lean forward in their chairs, Spock mostly with his fingers in a steeple and his lips thoughtfully closed against them. He stares intently at the bored, but Jim’s sure that Spock’s subtly watching Jim just as closely. On Spock’s turns, Jim openly eyes him, and after a while, Spock manages to stop blushing under the scrutiny. 

Jim still loses the second game. They were both quiet. On the third, he keeps that up, but he plays loudly, taking chances, thinking quickly, using his human nature to his advantage—it’s clear that Spock can anticipate all the logical moves, so Jim’s recklessly illogical. 

That game takes him somewhere around an hour to win. When he announces, “Checkmate,” he tries not to smirk too much. He wanted to impress, but Spock shows no signs of being won over. Jim wonders absently if Vulcans ever play for stakes. He somehow doubts Spock will be into strip chess, but maybe in a few days, when they’re more comfortable around each other, Jim will suggest it.

As Spock resets their pieces for a fourth match, Jim asks, “Are you hungry?”

Spock concedes, “Now would be an appropriate time to observe the nutritional amenities.”

That sounds Vulcan for ‘fridge,’ but Jim decides, “Let’s go out for dinner.” Spock glances at him, and Jim elaborates, “That’s a good first date on Earth.”

Spock counters, “We have no need to date. We have already been selected for each other and will be wed shortly.”

A few answers come to mind. Spock’s words, again, show little indication of how much he agrees or disagrees with that selection. After a moment of weighing his arguments, Jim settles on, “I’d _like_ to date. It’ll ease us into marriage better.”

Spock seems to consider this, then answers, “As you wish.”

Jim imagines that’s the best he’ll get, so he gets up, offers a hand to help Spock up, and says, “Let me grab a jacket.” Spock, to Jim’s surprise, takes his hand. The embrace of Spock’s fingers is gently firm and electric. Jim doesn’t want to let go. 

But he does, and he heads back to his lonely _love room_ , wishing he’d brought a tie.

* * *

Spock changes. He emerges from his room in black dress pants and a v-neck sweater, which, for some reason, strikes Jim as homemade. He could be wrong. He doesn’t know much of Vulcan fashion. He knows that the pastel grey-purple looks right at home against Spock’s pale skin, the low neck offering a tantalizing peek of Spock’s collarbone, the extra bulk of the heavy knit oddly cute around his trim frame. Jim’s jacket dresses up his jeans and shirt, but they look about equally casual. On a small terminal in the front hallway, Spock attempts to comm their guide, but no answers comes. Jim figures the Mrennenimians are trying to offer privacy to what they consider newly-weds. Or soon-to-be-weds. Jim figures, “We’ll just try the first place we see that looks appetizing.” Spock nods.

There are no vehicles in their driveway, and there’s no garage to look in. It’s probably just as well—as good at improvising as Jim is, he isn’t familiar enough with Mrennenimian technology to steer any of their crafts. Spock insists on bringing his tricorder to double-check the alien food, and he uses it to tell Jim, “Mrennenimian life-signs appear difficult to track on Federation tricorders, but I believe we are well within walking distance of a city structure.”

“One of their capitols,” Jim fills in, remembering Chekov’s eager mission briefing—what little of it there was. Spock lifts an eyebrow, perhaps to ask how there can be more than one capitol, but doesn’t follow through with a question. At this point, it’s obvious there’s _a lot_ of information they don’t have on their hosts. Under different circumstances, Jim might enjoy the chance to experience and learn about a new species. 

But Spock, even as a qualified science officer, isn’t _Jim’s officer_ just yet. For all he knows, their easy amicability will fizzle into nothing more, and they’ll prove a terrible team with no chemistry or connection. Well, they already seem to have the start of a connection. But enjoying touching fingers is hardly the same as conducting early-contact space missions. 

They walk to the end of the driveway in silence, and Spock closes the tricorder and strings it over his shoulder as they pass through the trees encompassing their property. It proves to be only a thin patch of foliage, and soon they’re on the other side, where another concrete walkway winds up a grassy hill, more palm-like trees swaying idly in a smooth wind. The temperature is warm enough that Jim thinks his jacket might not make it to the restaurant, but he keeps it on for formality’s sake. When they reach the top of the hill, the view gives way to a courtyard of various paths and plants, both potted and free, mostly green but with some splashes of orange and red flowers. Single or two-story buildings lie on either side, and Jim catches more glimpses of walls in the distance, interspersed evenly with the nature. The buildings, like their own villa, all sport large glass windows, the lights inside set dimly. A few yellow lanterns hang from balconies, roofs, and trees, a contrast to the darkening sky, only halfway into purple-black and still too light to catch stars. A birdcall sounds here and there, but there’s no sign of humanoids.

Spock pauses to look at Jim, as though awaiting orders, and Jim shrugs, leading on. Spock follows him down into the courtyard. The click of their boots against the stone is almost eerie. To break the silence, Jim asks, “Were you raised on Vulcan?”

Spock looks almost surprised at the question but quickly regains himself. He answers, “Yes,” as they round one of the buildings. This veers them into an open square, more tiled flooring than earth, a fountain and benches in the middle, and various structures branching off. Alien signs dictate different shops, but the plaza itself is empty. Spock lifts his tricorder again, perhaps to translate the signs, but Jim points at one sandwich board depicting a dish that looks like crepes. When he moves for it, Spock follows.

Though Spock didn’t ask, Jim provides, “I was raised on Earth on the North American cotenant. Kind of on a farm. Not a full blown one, really, but enough.” He stops when they reach the glass door. He can’t see anyone inside, but the door still opens easily when he slips his hand into the grip-hole. He doesn’t need to actually go in to see the place is deserted. He can’t even hear noises like they’re in the back. He closes the door again, frowning. 

Spock says for him, “Curious.”

“Maybe we’re too late?” When Spock looks at him, Jim clarifies, “Maybe they have a different sleep cycle. They could all be home in bed.”

“All?” Spock repeats skeptically, to which Jim just shrugs. It wouldn’t be unheard of. Some planets are remarkably uniform. 

Earth isn’t, and Jim’s hungry. 

They try a few places, find nothing, and eventually, Spock suggests, “Perhaps it would be best if we retire to our own residence.”

Disappointed, Jim mutters, “I would’ve liked a dinner date.”

“Perhaps a breakfast date would be more suitable for this planet.”

Jim looks at him, smiles, and nods. 

On the way back to the house, Jim explains he was raised by his mother, his father having died in the captain’s chair. Spock divulges that his own mother made his sweater for him and wished him luck on this arrangement. Jim thinks it odd that a Vulcan would wish another _luck_ but doesn’t pry. Spock doesn’t mention his father. They talk chess while they eat—it’s easier.

* * *

They retire earlier than Jim’s used to, perhaps subconsciously falling in line with the natives. At the bend in the corridor between their rooms, Jim halts, not knowing quite how to separate. Spock lifts his hand again, and Jim goes for that. This time, Spock presses harder—not forceful but enough to be _felt_ , not hesitant like before. He draws his fingers slowly along Jim’s: a caress. There’s something sensual in the innocent movement, something distinctly _intimate_ , and Jim spends that moment looking right into Spock’s eyes. He’s sure that Spock feels the same spark as him. 

But he’s not sure how Spock feels _about_ him. They part without a word. Jim watches Spock walk away before retreating to his own quarters, where the bed feels awkwardly large and too empty. He can’t help but wonder if he’ll ever get to sleep with his new husband. Maybe this is how it’ll always be—something cordial in public, but a bonding simply for the sake of bonding, and no real _bonding_ at all. If that’s the case, Starfleet might as well not have bothered—it won’t keep him from wanting others at all.

But he will admit that he’s spent a great deal of thought on Spock and no one else since coming here. It’s only been a day, but that’s usually enough time for several inappropriate thoughts to slip into his often over-zealous imagination. All he can think about is _Spock_. He would’ve liked to have Spock in an alien bar, in their unusually dim lighting and warm atmosphere and beautiful setting. He could’ve pretended this was different, that he was on some strange new world and chosen Spock, seen a handsome stranger across the room and went straight for him, _wanted_ him, wanted to feel out their chemistry and take Spock home to _taste_.

He did take Spock home, but the love room’s empty. Jim briefly contemplates pulling out a jar of lube to test but ultimately rejects the notion. There’s still a chance he can discover those with his husband. Tomorrow’s a new day.


	3. Painting

Jim has easy dreams, and the sunlight wakes him slowly. He’s pleasantly warm, the white blankets a haphazard mess about his body, the mattress unreasonably soft and the air perfectly clear, fresh. It’s dead quiet. He lets himself drift off back to sleep simply for the luxury of it—he rarely gets that opportunity on the Enterprise.

Unfortunately, that conjures dreams of his beloved ship, off somewhere else in the universe, Sulu keeping his seat warm and Bones badgering someone else. Somehow, Jim gets more homesick for the Enterprise than he ever does for Earth. 

Eventually, Spock’s going to be a part of Jim’s home, and that thought is what finally gets him up. Stretching languidly, Jim pulls out a new tee-shirt and swim trunks—may as well test out the water before they go gallivanting back to town. If he can convince Spock to get in the water, preferably shirtless, all the better. They may not be on deep-conversation terms yet, but Jim’s certainly not above ogling whatever nudity he can earn. 

There’s a small washroom attached to his suite that he takes a quick shower in, just in case. The nozzle dispenses regular water rather than the sonic kind Jim’s grown used to, and a harmless-seeming soap spouts out along with that water for the first minute. If there’s a separate control system for the soap, Jim can’t find it. There’s a single wheel-like device below the nozzle that reminds Jim of an ancient Earth dial up phone, and it ticks slowly back into place after the first twist Jim gives it, stopping the water when it reaches home. Figuring that’s the allotment of water the Mrennenimians are willing to give him, Jim accepts it and gets out, drying off with a towel. The entire back wall of the washroom is covered in towels hanging from various pegs, and Jim selects a different one to take to the beach. It has an elaborate design on it that could be tropical fruit akin to bananas but also kind of looks like an abstract bouquet of penises. He figures Spock will never make that connection.

He finds no sign of Spock on the way to the kitchen, where a glass of water and a tangerine facsimile serve for breakfast. Spock already scanned the hefty contents of the meter-long, ceiling-high fridge last night, and everything proved edible. Bones would probably still grumble about unexpected poisons, but Bones isn’t here to rain on his parade. Or offer support. Or help judge his cryptic fiancé. Though Jim would never admit it aloud, the approval of his close friend and colleague would’ve gone a long way.

If Jim comes back happy, Bones will probably approve, even if he’s unlikely to admit it aloud and condone Starfleet’s invasive protocols. So far, Jim’s not sure how he’ll return to his ship. Probably horny and adventure-starved.

He thinks of trying the guest rooms to wake Spock and request some company, but he can hear the ocean outside from the kitchen, and it calls to him. He figures he has plenty of time to catch Spock later. And it probably won’t hurt if Spock finds him in the water, already half-naked and wet. He’s heard he looks particularly scrumptious in shorts, although he doubts Hendorff would’ve admitted it if he’d known his captain was listening. The memory makes him wonder if he’s missing out on opportunities with his own crew by marrying a total stranger. But it’s probably best not to marry someone low on his chain of command, and he already vetoed all the more comparable officers. If only he had any chemistry with Uhura beyond professional respect and deep friendship, or M’Ress found his bodily baldness less amusing, or Chapel could get off her Vulcan train and Bones wouldn’t kill him for it. Of course, thoughts of those women have never kept him up quite as late as thoughts of _Spock_ did last night.

When Jim makes it outside, the veranda already shows signs of life. The stone underfoot stretches along the side of the house, letting into various rooms through spaced columns and glass doors, wicker and white-cushioned furniture placed haphazardly about—couches, chairs, low tables and lounges. One towel is already folded neatly over the back of one chair. Large-leafed potted plants are arranged at even intervals, trees bracketing the side of the house, but it’s mostly spotless sand beyond the veranda’s edge. It’s a dusty gold, peach-white sort of colour, trailing smoothly down to the clear water, which stretches out across the horizon as far as the eye can see. 

A black-tipped figure is already in the water, studiously swimming a straight line. Spock beat him to it. If Spock were any closer, Jim would approach only quietly and take his eyeful first, but Spock’s too far away to see anything good, so Jim lifts his fingers to his lips and lets out a loud whistle. Spock instantly looks over, and Jim gets ready to join him.

Tossing his towel into the same chair Spock selected, Jim strips his shirt over his head. Down to just crimson trunks, he makes his way from stone to sand. Shallow footprints mark Spock’s trail, all cleanly spaced and neat around the edges. By the time Jim’s toes are stepping into the water, Spock’s made it back to the beach. Every step forward takes more of him above the surface, and it gives Jim a chance to see almost everything he wanted to. Spock wears nothing but science-blue shorts that cling tightly to his thighs, the elastic waistband low around his hips. A mat of black curls is visible above the middle, trailing down inside the hem, but Jim tries not to let his eyes linger there too long, as much as he’d like to. He forces himself to make it up Spock’s taut stomach, over his tight chest, along his slender neck and to his handsome face. His dark hair is slicked back against him, bangs plastered to his forehead. 

He’s dripping wet. The water that laps at Jim’s toes is lukewarm, the sky clear and the sun bright, making Spock’s pale skin glisten. The dripping water highlights his cheekbones, gathers along his collarbone, and contorts along the contours of his muscles. He has a dusting of dark hair across his chest that’s more than Jim’s own blond fuzz, but not much. For that first moment, all Jim does is _look_ at Spock anew. If Starfleet had given him a catalogue of models to pick from, he imagines he would’ve chosen Spock right away and requested a centerfold in the meantime. 

Spock’s the one to break the silence. “Good morning, Captain.”

“Good morning.” Jim has a hard time not adding a teasing address on the end, like ‘honey’ or ‘hot stuff,’ but somehow manages. Instead, he nods past Spock’s shoulder and notes, “You beat me to it. I was also thinking of taking a swim. I take it everything checks out?”

Spock’s hands disappear behind his back in what might be a casual gesture, except that the rest of his body abruptly pulls straighter. He looks like he’s giving a formal report. “I assume you were properly briefed on this planet before arrival, and one of few sureties in that report should have been the safety of Mrennenimus Prime’s coastline cities. However, I did take the liberty of scanning as much of the vicinity as I could fit within tricorder range. There are few species of plant life growing this near to shore, and none show any harmful traits towards humans or Vulcans. Wildlife is also sparse until one goes much farther out, although four varieties of fish, one variety of snake, and one creature similar to a Terran lizard, are listed in the Mrennenimian computer banks. One of the species of fish is roughly the size of a Terran reef shark and looks very similar in structure if not colouring, though it has no teeth and therefore should not prove dangerous. None are venomous and all are reported to have a docile nature. I believe so long as we stay within sight of the villa, we should be safe.”

It’s a far larger report than Jim expected, and he finds himself nodding and answering, “Thank you, Commander.” Spock, for a fraction of a second, looks somewhat pleased. Perhaps he enjoys Starfleet structure. Or, perhaps, if Jim’s very, very lucky, he has an authority kink with Jim in the more powerful position.

Figuring he should get in the water before his appreciation of the view becomes obvious, Jim walks past Spock, wading deeper, already scanning the clear surface for signs of life. “I’d like to find some,” he notes, meaning the sharks, although the lizards also sound interesting—he’s not sure yet about the snake. At least it gives him something to do. He can hear Spock following closely behind him.

“If you wish, although I must inform you I see no gain to such pursuit. I have encountered all six forms of wildlife already and found nothing of particular note to Starfleet interests. Unless you would like me to compile a more thorough report...?”

That’s far enough. Jim stops, the water now up to his chest and his arms idly wafting below the surface, to look over his shoulder. He feels morally obligated to remind Spock: “You’re going to be my science officer, yes, and unless when the Enterprise comes back someone has a boatload of new accommodations, you’ll likely be my first officer, too. ...But right now, I’m your fiancé, not your captain.”

Spock stops tantalizingly close to Jim, but backs up when their knees brush—Jim lets himself sink down, swimming instead of walking along the soft sand below. Spock’s initial silence makes Jim want to ask if Spock _wants_ him to play captain. But finally, Spock says instead, “I would also be willing to write whatever report my fiancé should wish.”

Jim can’t stop a large grin and counters, “I hope you don’t expect me to return the favour.”

“I am aware humans tend to separate professional matters from personal relationships in a different capacity.”

“And I think I’d rather hear you talk to me than read something you wrote.”

“I assure you, my reports will be appropriately in-depth and anticipatory of your questions.”

“I meant more because I like the sound of your voice and being face-to-face with you, but okay.”

Spock’s cheeks dust green again, his expression otherwise staying the same. It makes Jim’s grin grow all the more. He wasn’t just trying to flirt—he _does_ like the deep tone of Spock’s voice, the unique way it stays remarkably level most of the time, only to lilt up in curious patches—Jim’s a quick study, and Spock’s speech patterns are consistent enough to pick out. Their conversation styles are vastly different, but they’re proving to mesh well enough, and Jim finds a certain enjoyment in meeting Spock’s blunt formality with cordial humour. 

If Spock finds the same interest in their dialogue, he doesn’t show it. He turns out towards the open water and suggests, “Perhaps we may swim laps. We are as likely to come across native wildlife in a structured exercise as we are a random search pattern, and if we do so in the proper form, we will also be conducting a more efficient exercise regiment.”

Jim doesn’t usually go to the beach to work out, but he figures he’s given Spock enough of a hard time and concedes, “Alright, laps it is.”

From where they are, they begin their first lap parallel to the shore, Spock starting and Jim following, meaning to keep a leisurely pace but having to work to keep up with Spock. Though Jim’s always heard that Vulcan is something of a desert planet, Spock swims like a natural, which makes Jim wonder where else he’s been—perhaps he went to the Academy on Earth, or a colony world with plenty of pools. Spock’s form is exemplary, his speed quick and his wake minimal. It gives Jim an adrenaline rush to match him, gliding through the beautiful alien water, but it also deprives him of more conversation and any opportunity to ogle Spock. Instead, he just swims.

When they’re parallel with the trees on one end of their property, Jim’s able to see around the growth to another villa in the distance—perhaps there’s a string of beachside properties like theirs, shrouded in scenery. Jim and Spock stick parallel to theirs in silent understanding. They do three laps before Spock halts, Jim taking a second to realize it and then swimming back. He pokes his head out of the water, breathing harder than before for the rush of it, and Spock looks down to say, “There is one of the lizard-like creatures on the ocean floor.” Grinning, Jim nods, takes in a deep breath, and dives down. 

Spock follows as usual. They’re deeper out, perhaps two body-lengths up, but the sunlight streaming through the clear water still makes it easy to see the bottom—the murky sand is lit up in cloud-like patches, shimmering with the gentle sway of the water. The lizard Spock spoke of isn’t hard to spot—its scales are a bright, glossy mishmash of pink and green. It shuffles lazily along the sand, paying no attention to the two men that sink around it. It does look exactly like lizards Jim’s seen on earth, colouring aside, and it would probably fit right into the palm of his hand. He has the distinct urge to touch it, _feel_ the alien life against his own pulse, but years of regulations and the knowledge of Spock’s caution holds him back. Instead, he watches the little thing scuttle about, tail slightly disrupting the sand around it, until he can’t breathe anymore and has to go up for air. 

Spock surfaces right behind him, calm as ever while Jim shakes out his hair and tries to snort water out of his nose. Smiling at Spock afterwards, Jim concludes, “Cute. Maybe I’ll take my helmsman one if I can’t find a good plant for him.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow and predictably answers, “Removing an alien life form from its natural habitat would be inadvisable.”

“You’d think an arranged marriage for two grown strangers would be inadvisable, but turns out there’s worse things,” Jim counters. Spock dons a combination of a frown and puzzlement, and Jim adds kindly, “I was kidding, Spock. I promise I won’t bring back any pets, no matter how good a present they might make.”

Perhaps to make sure Jim doesn’t get an opportunity to reconsider with another species, Spock suggests, “Perhaps we should return now.” Maybe because Jim looks skeptical, he adds, “I believe I owe you a breakfast date, although lunch might be the more appropriate term at this juncture.”

It’s the first sign of real _interest_ Spock’s shown, even if it’s flimsy. So Jim couldn’t possibly argue. But he can say, “Race you back.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, but turns towards the shore and informs Jim, “As my species is known to possess superior speed, please do not feel displeased when you lose.”

And that’s the closest Spock’s come to a joke, so Jim laughs and shouts, “Go!”

* * *

Spock does win, but he waits the extra three seconds for Jim at the shoreline, so it’s worth it. Spock’s a lovely prize to make it back to. They towel off side by side, Spock concentrating on an efficient drying system and Jim stealing furtive looks sideways. Maybe next time, he’ll offer to operate Spock’s towel. It still seems too early for it. Jim gets back into his shirt, but Spock walks into the house pleasantly shirtless. 

They go their separate ways to change, though all Jim does is pull on the same jeans as yesterday. Spock emerges in a different sweater with a pale argyle pattern in white and purple that looks too bulky for the heat. As a Vulcan, Spock likely prefers that. Yet he rolls his sleeves neatly up to his elbows when they leave the front porch. Between the sweater and his flawless bowl-cut, he looks like a cute nerd. Jim has no idea if Vulcans have similar stereotypes, but he imagines it would be difficult to explain he means it as a compliment, so he keeps the comment to himself.

Like yesterday, there’s no sign of their guide. It’s a quiet walk up the hill, and they find the buildings beyond lit but just as seemingly empty. They keep on towards what felt like the city center, and on the way, Jim mentions as casually as he can, “You know, there’s plenty of room in that master bedroom. I didn’t get a good look at the guest rooms, but you could easily fit in the master one with me.”

Spock is slow to respond, then offers, “Thank you. But I think it best that I decline.” Jim tries not to show his disappointment and doesn’t even look at Spock, though he can feel Spock’s eyes on him.

They reach the plaza shortly after and find it deserted, save for a group of small birds that look something like three-winged chickens pecking at crumbs around a bench. The fountain bubbles peacefully on, plenty of signs still out and various lights shining brightly beneath the high sun. As far as Jim can tell, nothing’s been touched since last night. Jim had another question to ask of Spock, but the situation before them puts it out of his mind. 

“It appears deserted,” Spock notes. “Yet according to the mission briefing I received, as well as information on the console in our villa, this should be a thriving city.”

“I don’t know how long you’ve been in space, Spock, but ‘should’ is often a lot different than ‘is.’”

Absently, Spock responds, “I have served approximately two years as Captain Pike’s first officer aboard the USS Farragut.” 

Surprised, Jim looks sideways. “A year in command for me, but my first assignment as a cadet was aboard the Farragut. I know Pike.”

“He is an accomplished captain,” Spock notes.

“Accomplished? Spock, the man’s amazing! I used to think of him as my role model.” Spock gives a curt nod as though to acknowledge the logic of this, but it makes Jim wonder, brows furrowed, “Why would you agree to a position that would inevitably force you to transfer away from such a renowned captain?”

“So that I could marry you,” Spock answers simply, which almost makes _Jim_ blush. He didn’t think Spock would do that to him, but it seems Spock, purposely or not, has charm of his own.

Though Jim’s kept in touch here and there over the years, he can’t remember if Pike’s married or not. He must be. He’d be too old for Spock, though Vulcans age differently, and maybe Spock would’ve preferred a more mature partner. Jim’s still glad he won out. 

And he considers himself exponentially luckier for it. Now he’s almost positive Spock will prove a valuable officer; anyone good enough for Pike is more than good enough for him. He finds himself commenting disparagingly, “Yet you won’t share a room with me.”

“Yet,” Spock corrects. Jim tilts his head, and at that, Spock’s mouth opens, closes, then tries again, “I apologize if I have given you the impression that I find you unacceptable.”

Relieved, Jim asks, “You just want to wait until we know each other more?” 

Rather than agree, Spock reiterates, “I fully intend to marry you.”

Wanting to blush again, Jim snorts and says, “Thanks, babe.” The term’s out of his mouth before he can pull it back, but Spock shows no adverse reaction to it. Maybe he’s also figured out Jim’s speech patterns and considered offhanded terms of endearment inevitable. In the wake of it, Spock looks around at their surroundings, his arms stiff at his sides. He probably wishes he’d brought his tricorder. Given their last readings, Jim doubts it would’ve helped. 

He starts off towards the same store as last night with the decorated sandwich board out front, but it looks as empty as it did before. Jim opens the glass door anyway, takes a step inside, and calls, “Anybody home?” But he doesn’t get an answer. It echoes back through the alternating wood and stone walls, over the bare tables and spindly chairs. Around the bar, Jim can see some of the metallic kitchen in the back. No one’s there.

He leaves again and walks around the wide basin of ferns to the adjacent shop, which has various stuffed animals in the window and is probably a toy store. It’s unlocked and devoid of any life, except for a small toy frog-like creature on the counter that seems to be in perpetual, mechanical motion. Circular shelves of toys are everywhere, the ceiling clipped full of key-chains, but that doesn’t help them. Exiting again, Jim wanders across the square, Spock on his heels. 

At what’s most likely a bookstore, Jim holds the door open for Spock to follow. Spock puts his hand against the glass but doesn’t follow Jim inside. Instead, he asks from the doorway, “Do you intend to marry me?”

Jim’s taken aback by the question and freezes with his hands on a giant stack of pink-paged books. The covers seem to wrap once around the spines but otherwise look little different than Earth books. He looks at Spock, surprised, but finds Spock characteristically impassive. Jim thought he was being more obvious and hadn’t considered that Spock would be in the same boat as him. He answers easily, “Of course I do. Didn’t I say that?”

“You expressed finding me physically adequate.” But, as he leaves off, that isn’t everything. For a marriage, it’s not even one of the more important things.

Jim still corrects, “More than adequate.” Specifically to make Spock blush, he amends, “I think you’re gorgeous.”

Spock does blush, but to Jim’s confusion, his frown deepens, like he doesn’t believe it or thinks Jim’s making fun of him. Jim wouldn’t have thought a Vulcan would have difficulty with self-esteem, but there’s a lot he doesn’t know about Spock. He goes on, “Anyway, I’m in the same boat as you.” Spock opens his mouth, but Jim’s learning and anticipates, “it’s an expression. I mean the same situation. I have to marry someone. I knew when I filled out my forms it was a somewhat random chance of who I got, and I accepted that. And I consider myself lucky that I got someone I can talk to and am attracted to.”

Spock tilts his head slightly to the left. “You anticipated someone you could not talk to?”

To anyone else, Jim might say ‘you know what I mean,’ but to Spock, he just grins and explains, “We get along okay, right?” After a pause, he adds, mostly to lighten the mood, “Bones—my CMO—figured I’d annoy you into canceling within the first day.” Technically, they haven’t even made it through the full second day yet, but it’s still something. Jim’s had dates fall apart faster, even though this isn’t really a ‘date’ comparable to others.

Spock pauses too. Then he steps properly inside the shop, letting the glass door close softly behind him. He admits, “Captain Pike was... skeptical... of my own ability to bond with another.”

“Well, we might not’ve fully bonded yet, but I think you’re doing alright.”

“Thank you. You are also... agreeable.” The term sounds wrong, like he wanted to say something else but couldn’t decide in time. Jim takes the compliment and gestures Spock deeper into the store.

“C’mon, let’s check out the back. Maybe we’ll find someone who can recommend a lunch place that actually has a staff today.”

But the back of the bookshop is empty. Mrennenimians don’t seem to believe in locks, so they confirm in a relatively short time that there’s no one in any of the places within the plaza. There are no sounds from any direction beyond the natural weather and occasional calls of animals. In something of a boutique, Spock finds a generic terminal that he manages to navigate enough to tell Jim, “There appears to be no computer activity anywhere within this network.” That’s what confirms for Jim that they’re not just dealing with sleepy aliens but something distinctly _suspicious_.

Stomachs empty, Jim and Spock branch out from the courtyard down different alleys, stopping at different shops and residential homes, always together, quiet now and listening, guards up. They have no phasers or tricorders, but they turn out not to be needed. Everything is peacefully blank. There aren’t any signs of struggle. Nothing’s knocked over, they never find any blood, there isn’t even litter in the streets. It’s as if everyone deliberately tidied up their homes, left on all their albeit solar-powered lights, and walked right out of town.

Jim and Spock ‘explore’ until the sun starts to set. Jim’s starving, and he doesn’t want to be caught in unfamiliar territory after dark. So they head back, Jim theorizing things like “maybe they’re all holograms and just turned themselves off” and Spock insisting: “we have insufficient data at this time.”

* * *

At their own computer console, Spock attempts to contact the Mrennenimian government, but it merely triggers an automated response in crude Federation standard: _“The supreme council is currently occupied with standard procedures. Everything is well. Please enjoy your stay.”_ After Spock fiddles with a few commands, evidently trying to bypass the message, the pre-recorded voice of their guide informs them, _“The Mrennenimian people wish the Federation couple as many or no eggs as they wish. If you would like to order furniture, press the marmalade key to record your order, and we will reply to you when an appropriate worker is available. If you would like to hear a list of available lubrication flavours, press the dolphin key once, press twice for individual ingredients. If you would like a surrogate to bear your young, please discuss this first with your intended, then press the serendipity key and we will reply to you when an appropriate physician-carrier is available.”_

Spock turns to Jim, who asks, “Which one’s the serendipity key?”

As it appears the automated messages are both badly translated and unhelpful, they eventually give up. The Enterprise is already out of range, as Jim’s packed communicator confirms, and while Spock suggests launching some kind of message buoy, they both know that they don’t understand or have access to the right technology to transmit anything worth the effort—it’d likely be faster to simply wait until the Enterprise returns. And then they’ll scold whatever ambassadors deemed this planet trustworthy enough to strand a captain and commander on.

Waiting with inaction isn’t Jim’s strong suit, but it’s comforting that Spock’s at least as suspicious as he is. They slip easily into search-mode together, easily into problem-solving, and for a while, it does feel like they’re _captain and commander_ , on some bizarrely isolated mission. It isn’t the private bonding Starfleet would’ve hoped for it, but it works.

Curiosity sustains him for a while, but eventually, Jim’s stomach gives away his hunger. From a control panel in the senohpolyx room—which turns out to be something like an indoor pool, only filled with rubber balls instead of water like a Terran ball pit—Spock glances over at him. Exploring their own villa has done no good. Spock suggests, “Perhaps it is time we retired our search until tomorrow, and instead concentrated on retaining our strength.”

Walking along the rim of the ball pit to Spock—and resisting the urge to throw them both into it—Jim quips, “If you’re asking me to dinner, the answer is yes.”

* * *

They subsisted before on raw foods, but when they make it to the kitchen, Spock suggests, “Perhaps it would be more efficient if we consumed the same meal.”

He’s already filling a spherical pot with water from the sink. Then he sets it on the stovetop, comprised of three concentric circles. While Spock sets the digital dial, Jim asks, “Are you offering to cook for me?”

Spock says simply, “Yes,” and rummages through one of those cupboards.

How Spock learned to cook with Mrennenimian food, Jim has no idea. Perhaps he gleaned recipes from the hallway terminal, or perhaps he researched this beforehand. Either way, the important thing to Jim is that _Spock’s cooking for him_ —something very few partners of Jim’s have done. Not that he had many around long enough to try. Spock sprinkles alien powders and assorted cracker-like foods into it while the water steadily rises to a boil. There don’t seem to be any stirring spoons around, but there is a metal instrument hanging from a peg beside the window that looks like a warped ruler. Spock uses it to stir his concoction, his back to Jim and his concentration focused on the stove. Jim leans against the island, admiring the curve of Spock’s spine. He could get used to this. 

Aboard a starship, of course. Jim never thought of himself as a family man, but he certainly enjoys the occasional domestic event, and this is certainly better than waiting for a Synthesizer, even if it takes longer. That spins Jim’s train of thought onto retirement—when he’s so old that they’re physically tossing him out of the captain’s chair, what then? Will he and Spock stay married? They won’t need to be anymore. Although, Spock will live longer. Maybe he’ll be able to keep command long into Jim’s senior years. Maybe they’ll stay together, and Jim will keep his rickety old bones in Spock’s cabin. It seems more fitting than retiring to Earth. Or Vulcan. If he spends the rest of his life with Spock—and he certainly intends to stay in Starfleet where he’ll need to be—he probably won’t want to give up company at the end. They’ll have to be old admirals together, fighting to keep the Enterprise with them until there’s nothing left. 

And then Jim, human, will pass away first, knowing Spock can carry on their legacy and hoping Spock’s Vulcan memory keeps their memories alive.

“Jim?” 

Jim’s shaken back to consciousness from his reverie by Spock’s slightly worried expression. He explains, “Sorry, just thinking.” Spock seems to accept that and resumes his work—pouring soup into two spherical glass bowls. He passes one to Jim, and they head off to the table across the way, right next to the door of the veranda. Outside, the stars cast sparkling reflections across the water. 

They take their seats, and Jim, still half lost in suppositions of the future, asks, “What’s your father like?” And he’d like a picture sometime—see what he’s in for with Spock.

Spock hesitates with his spoon halfway to his mouth, then lowers it. It takes him several minutes to answer, “He is a Starfleet ambassador.”

Jim stirs his orange broth and asks, “Are you close?”

Again, Spock hesitates. “Our relationship is... complicated. I believe he would have wished me to attend the Vulcan Science Academy.”

“As opposed to Starfleet and the accompanying human husband?”

Spock stares at Jim, then looks deliberately down at his soup. “The concept of a Vulcan-human relationship is equally complicated.” The way he takes his first sip without looking up gives Jim the impression the conversation’s over. 

Jim takes a first sip himself. It’s thin, the flavour mild, but palatable enough. There’s a mist in it that doesn’t seem completely dissolved into the water, and chunks of green onion-like vegetables float amidst other crumbs. It’s vaguely reminiscent of miso soup with crackers in it. After the second bite, he tells Spock truthfully. “This is really good. Thanks.”

Spock still doesn’t look up, but now it’s likely to hide his expression, which gives away that he’s pleased.

* * *

Between them, they eat all the soup. They stay at the table after it’s gone. They go over what they found again, which essentially amounts to nothing. It doesn’t seem like there’s anything _dangerous_ going on, as they imagine they would’ve heard or by now discovered evidence of a ruckus. Nevertheless, they agree not to leave the house without each other: safety in numbers.

If Jim had his way, they’d _stay_ together, including at night. Jim suggests stacking cans or something by the front door just in case, as they have no means of locking it, but Spock insists it’s highly unlikely that intruders silently kidnapped the entire city at once. If it was a case of other aliens taking these aliens, Jim can’t figure out why he and Spock were left behind. There are other residential buildings along the beach that they’ll have to check another day. As it is, they say good night to one another in the hallway. 

Spock lifts his hand first this time, Jim knowing what to do, but when he has Spock’s index and middle finger against his, he wraps his own around them. He holds them together, drawing out the ripple of _emotion_ their contact always gives him. He knows now what it is: touch telepathy—a rumour about Vulcans—but he didn’t think it would come so studiously, so strongly—he’s not a telepath and he doesn’t know why _he_ feels it too. Jim’s grip renders Spock momentarily speechless, and Jim asks quietly, “What is this?”

Spock’s breath sounds just that little bit strained. He murmurs softly, “A Vulcan kiss.”

Jim nods and doesn’t let go of Spock’s hand. Experimentally, he draws it closer to himself, moving the rest of his body forward. Spock doesn’t turn away. Jim tilts his face in, lashes lowering, and Spock’s flutter, watching Jim through dilated pupils, then closing all together, bow lips parting, and Jim _wants_ to flatten them together.

But he knows Spock wants to go slow. So he respects that. He bypasses Spock’s alluring mouth and instead presses a chaste kiss to Spock’s cheek. Their fingers are still locked together, and Jim squeezes Spock’s. Jim can see the subtle shiver in him. 

It’s difficult for Jim to pull away. He makes himself. He mutters, “Good night, Spock.” The regret’s probably thick in it. He turns to leave first, before he does something that’ll ruin everything. He wonders if Spock would’ve tasted like soup or something _more_.

He retires to his master suite, alone, and the bed looks dauntingly huge. Jim brushes his teeth in the adjacent washroom, then climbs out of his jeans and under the covers. He doesn’t know how Spock sleeps—does he have pajamas, is he lazy in day-clothes like Jim, or does he sleep _nude_? The last thought forms a pretty image in Jim’s mind that he can’t dispel. He knows what Spock looks like almost everywhere now—he knows the jut of Spock’s hips, the tone of his chest, the trail of pubic hair that must cover his groin. What Jim doesn’t know is what lies beneath, and what Spock’s bowl-cut looks like messed up from being grabbed and splayed out along a pillow. He knows what Spock looks like glistening with water, but not _sweat_ , flushed across his cheeks but not _everywhere_ , doesn’t know what Spock smells like or sounds like when he comes undone. It probably takes a lot to get him there. He’s so reserved. He seems patient. Jim would probably need to work him slowly, kiss him and stroke him and rock into him for hour upon hour, demolishing all his walls with a steady thrum of _lust_.

Or maybe, because Spock’s so reserved and patient, he’s never had anyone else at all, and the slightest touch would unravel him. Maybe he’s so pent up that it’s all just waiting to burst. Maybe Jim could make him come with just one command. Maybe he wanted a human for that reason—didn’t he say something about someone with a handle on their emotions?—maybe he wants someone crude and uninhibited but dominant and controlled to throw him against a wall and _ravish_ him. 

Once Jim’s started, he can’t stop. He pictures his future husband rising from the water, exposed and perfect, walking up the shore on Jim’s order, coming right into Jim’s arms, where Jim would kiss him properly, on the mouth, not light and new but _hard_ and meaningful. Jim would thread his fingers through Spock’s hair, wrap another arm around his waist, shove a hungry tongue between his lips and lick him from the inside out. Then the scene shifts, and Jim thinks of Spock not on Mrennenimus Prime but on the edge of the Enterprise’s pool on the rec deck, then in the showers there, no, the bridge—Jim brings his hand up to his mouth to stifle his moan and thinks of parading his beautiful fiancé around for all his officers to see. He has no idea how soundproof the walls are here, but he’s gone too far to stop. He uses one hand to silence himself and the other to disappear beneath the blankets and between his legs. The thin sheen of sweat from the heat of the tropical air and his own thoughts isn’t quite enough lube, but it’ll have to do. He starts to pump his cock while he pictures bending Spock over the navigational console and tearing his blue uniform to shreds.

The captain’s chair is one of Jim’s favourite fantasies—he’s always wanted to fuck someone there. He’s never quite had the opportunity. But once he’s married to his new first officer, surely they’ll find the right circumstances—the next time they dock for repairs or clear out the crew for shore leave, he can have the bridge left to him and Spock. Spock would probably want to monitor the science station, but Jim would draw him over. Jim would purr a command to please, and Spock, a dutiful husband and loyal officer, would obey, would climb forward into Jim’s lap, would wrap tentative arms around Jim’s shoulders and part trembling thighs over his legs. Then Jim would kiss Spock hard and slap Spock’s tight rear and order Spock to _ride him_ , and Spock would, would kiss Jim eagerly and rise up, push down, impale himself on his captain’s cock and ride Jim’s lap hard, right there in the nerve center of their ship.

Rolling onto his side, Jim humps his hand, pushes himself quickly to the edge—he runs through a slew of fantasies—fucking Spock’s ass in his cabin, fucking Spock’s mouth on his family home in Iowa, sixty-nine-ing with Spock right here in the sand, the night after they’re married, when Spock becomes properly _his_ and he becomes Spock’s. He’s had so many lovers over the years, but not a one of them enters his mind—his daydreams change but every one is about Spock. He thinks of what it’s like when they touch fingers and tries to imagine what it’d be like to touch _everywhere_ and _he wants Spock so badly he could scream._

He rolls completely over, fucks the mattress hard, and spills into his hand with a muffled roar. He pictures coming on Spock’s pretty face and watching his own seed slick along Spock’s eyebrows and trickle down to the corners of his mouth. Even as Jim comes down, the vision remains. When he’s finished, satiating and panting, he thinks of gently cleaning Spock off with the penis bouquet towel. 

Then he lies there, resolving to clean himself up in the morning, pondering dizzily how he fell so hard so soon.


	4. Elapse

Jim’s pulled out of his obscurely dull dream—Yeoman Rand braiding his ever-growing hair while Scotty serenades them with bagpipes—by Spock’s dulcimer tones. 

As Spock’s voice is infinitely more to his tastes than bagpipes, Jim lets himself be drawn back to the waking world. He does it slowly enough that a hand lands on his shoulder, atop the blanket, and gently nudges him. Jim considers faking sleep just to make Spock rouse him more physically, but a yawn betrays him. The weight of Spock’s hand withdraws, and Jim blinks his eyes open to the early light.

Spock stands above him, perfectly dressed in a full Starfleet uniform. Jim could almost believe they were back aboard the Enterprise.

Except this bed is softer than his own, and Jim’s nowhere near in the right uniform, and he can feel the crusty mess on his shirt and the sheets where he wiped himself off last night. He can smell it. He tries not to blush furiously, because as far as he can tell, Spock hasn’t notice. 

Spock announces simply, “I believe I have made a significant discovery. It would be best if you were to see it for yourself.”

Adventure’s right up there with sex for siren-calls Jim has a weakness for, but in the interest of preserving his dignity, he asks, “Do I have time to shower and change?”

Spock folds his hands behind his back, something he seems to be in the habit of during reports. This feels very much like a professional report. He says, “I do not believe this information changes the nature of our situation, and therefore it is not a matter of urgency. I apologize if you would have preferred to sleep.”

The last thing Jim wants to do is discourage Spock from entering his bedroom, so he says, “It’s fine.” This trip’s been ridiculously relaxing anyway. The two of them stare at each other for a moment, Jim willing himself not to blush and Spock looking blankly back at him. As boring as his dream was, he’s grateful that he doesn’t have morning wood, because it would be a towering pyramid by now, and staring at Spock’s face while he’s in bed with dried cum on his shirt is starting to get to him.

Finally, Jim says, “I’ll be right out.” He considers adding ‘dismissed, Commander,’ but the hint seems to do its job. Spock looks instantaneously shaken out of his reverie, and he bows his head and turns to leave. How Jim resists inviting Spock along to the shower, he has no idea.

It takes everything he has not to jerk off again in the shower. He takes it cold.

* * *

It takes a fair amount of walking to get to the next closest estate, all through tall trees and sparse grass, with Spock working a tricorder to keep them in the right direction. It’s like theirs in style, though the configuration is varied—none of the buildings on Mrennenimus are cookie-cutter, at least from what they’ve seen. Through the various windows and doors and openings, Jim can see more personal furnishings about, some familiar and others completely alien. The lights aren’t on and don’t need to be—the sun outside is more than enough.

In a casual shirt and pants, Jim follows Spock around the back to a similar veranda. Like everywhere else, the chairs are neatly arranged, the plants thriving, nothing out of place. Spock walks through the decor, right up to the glass door of the house, and points inside. 

Half-hidden behind a white couch, Jim can see the peak of _something_ different. Gnarled, gossamer-thin, and dully glossy, an empty sack is crumpled on the floor. Jim leans forward to peer through the glass but can’t place the object and ultimately straightens up, asking his partner, “What is it?”

“Organic,” Spock answers, fiddling with his tricorder. Jim looks back at him in shock, and Spock adds thoughtfully, “The readings are very faint and did not register until I reached this point on my first trip. It is not alive, but I believe it does contain some semblance of genetic material.”

As surprising as that is, the part Jim repeats is, “Your first trip?”

Spock frowns. “I apologize, Jim. I felt it prudent to continue our investigation, but humans require more sleep than Vulcans, and I judged it best to allow you an adequate rest period.”

“It could’ve been dangerous, though.”

“Given our prior observations, I deemed it unlikely, but I will refrain from leaving without you in the future if you wish.”

If anything, Jim should probably be fine with the occasional breaks from the fiancé so randomly thrust upon him, but he finds himself irked by the idea. Under the guise of safety, he says, “I would prefer to stay together until we know what we’re dealing with.” Maybe after that. They make a good team anyway. Spock nods as though he finds the proverbial handcuff to his future husband perfectly acceptable. 

With that settled, Jim nods towards the house and asks, “Did you go inside?”

“I observed from here—I did not wish to commit a breach of privacy.”

Under normal circumstances, Jim would agree. Under these, he decides, “I think it’s justified. We have more than enough reason to consider this whole city abandoned, and if there’s something in there that can help us potentially rescue the natives and protect ourselves, it’s our duty to look.”

Spock doesn’t offer agreement but also doesn’t protest, likely deferring to his captain’s decision. 

As Jim slips his hands into the crescent grove of the patio doors, he adds, “Besides, it’s what they get for not locking anything.” Whether or not he gets that it’s a joke, Spock, again, has no comment.

There’s nothing immediately different inside the house. Jim checks his shoes are clean and trails nothing across the floor. The air inside is as warm and fresh as outside, the living space as pristine as their own residence. The only thing out of place is the giant, crumpled mass of mesh tucked between the couch and coffee table. 

Spock comes up beside him but must have no new revelations—he’d likely offer them. Tricorders have proved largely unhelpful while dealing with this planet.

When the rest of his senses provide no answers and Spock doesn’t mention anything about toxins or viruses, Jim kneels down and tentatively touches it. It’s light and collapses around the point of his prodding. It feels dry, almost scaly, and triggers something in his memory that he can’t place right away.

A bit of careful arranging, and Jim stands up again to announce, “It’s the size of a person.”

“A humanoid,” Spock notes, “yes.”

“Could it be some sort of... clothing?”

Spock tilts his head, examines it, and slowly answers, “There are no mechanisms for fastening it together, and it would be very impractical, providing neither opacity for privacy nor protection against the elements.”

Then Jim realizes what it reminds him of, and he pales. Spock must notice his reaction, because the tricorder turns off. “Captain?”

“Snake skin.”

“What?”

“It’s like when a snake sheds its skin,” Jim mutters, taking a step to walk around it. It’s roughly the size of a Mrennenimian, yes, but it doesn’t _look_ like one, and as far as he can see, there are no holes for eyes or a mouth. It could be a cocoon, he thinks, but he doesn’t know of any intelligent species who do that, certainly not indoors. 

“The Mrennenimians are not a reptilian species,” Spock notes.

“There could be another species present,” Jim says, recalling Spock’s description of a snake in the water yesterday. “Multiple sentient species are not unheard of on a single planet, and we know so little about this one.”

“We also do not know if this was shed by a sentient species,” Spock adds.

What it all really amounts to is that they don’t know _anything_.

And this begs another question. “...If this is shed skin... where’s the rest of the body?”

Spock flicks his tricorder back on, but he gives Jim no answer.

* * *

They find four “shells” in that estate, one hidden in a closet and two buried in the ball pit. There’s another building closer to this house than this to theirs—perhaps because this villa isn’t meant to give newly weds privacy—and its senohpolyx room hides the same secret. As they don’t know if they’re dealing with alien remains and don’t want to violate any spiritual taboos—something quite common surrounding death in many cultures—they don’t move the skins. Jim couldn’t do anything with them anyway, and Spock suggests that while they would likely prove fascinating to study, he could ascertain little without the proper tools. 

Eventually, they go home empty-handed. The walk there is tenser than the morning one. He’s hoping that if whatever got the Mrennenimians jumps out at them, they’ll leave more than paper-thin shells behind.

* * *

In the relative safety of their temporary home, Jim relaxes somewhat; even if they don’t have locks, they have four walls around them, and he’s fairly certain there are no surprises lingering in their quiet villa. They check their ball pit anyway. Jim’s absurdly relieved when they find nothing untoward in it. 

Then they retire to the kitchen, and Spock cuts up fruit while Jim pulls a chair up to the island and muses, “Maybe the Mrennenimians are reptilian, but put on the skins of mammals to make us seem more at home.”

“The Federation already has reptilian members,” Spock points out.

“That they know of? Spock, they think the Federation includes _Klingons_. Clearly, they weren’t operating on all the facts.”

“And now they appear not to be operating here at all, reptilian or otherwise.”

“We don’t know the skins and their disappearance is related.”

Spock pauses with his knife halfway through an apple look-alike, which indicates to Jim that Spock hadn’t considered that. He looks up at Jim, hesitates, then notes, “We did not find such things yesterday.”

“We stuck mostly to commercial spaces, and we didn’t check the ball pits.”

Spock nods and seems to accept this premise. “Very well. We cannot definitively conclude that our discovery of the remains coincides with their arrival, nor that they are related to the incident at hand.” The word “remains” makes Jim wince, but he understands the reasoning. The tricorder, evidently, couldn’t determine the age of the skins. He’s not surprised.

He’s confused. But he’s pleased when Spock slides a plate forward stacked with varying fruit slices. Sooner or later, Jim’s going to have to figure out something to make for Spock in return. 

Spock predictably gets himself a fork—or the Mrennenimian equivalent, while Jim uses his fingers to pop the first, juicy, banana-ish slice into his mouth. Only because he’s sure Spock would prefer it, Jim finishes chewing before going on, “Then again, maybe it does. Maybe those _are_ the bodies left over, and the Mrennenimians have evolved into an incorporeal form.”

“That is not possible,” Spock instantly dismisses. “Presumably, there would still be a corporeal body left behind. Furthermore, I cannot imagine how the government would neglect to mention something so profound to the Federation before allowing guests on a soon-to-be deserted world.”

“Maybe they didn’t know.”

“If it was not a coordinated effort, then the entire populace of this city would have had to reach this evolution within the same night. Such an event is highly unlikely.”

“Unlikely. Not impossible.”

Spock accepts the correction but leaves it there. Jim keeps eating and tries not to think of the obvious: if they are remains, there _should_ be bodies. And there aren’t, which means someone, or something, had to take them away.

Right now, there’s nothing he can do about it. So he lets his brain switch to a different topic. His new favourite one. Spock.

Spock is delicately spearing one pear-sliver after another and eating them off the end of his fork across the island from Jim. He always does that, Jim realizes—Spock never eats with his hands. At least, Jim’s never seen him do it, and most of the Mrennenimian diet seems small and solid enough for it, excluding soup. Not that he knows that was a Mrennenimian recipe. Jim sucks on an apple chunk and watches Spock go through two more slices.

When Spock goes in for a third, Jim darts a hand forward to capture it before Spock’s fork can. Spock’s fork falls harmlessly aside, his eyes rising to meet Jim’s. Jim lifts the fruit to Spock’s face and hovers it over Spock’s mouth, resisting the urge to rub it across Spock’s bow lips. Spock lifts an eyebrow, and Jim says, “Say ‘ah.’”

Spock parts his lips, not enough to be fed, but not enough to speak. 

After a long moment, he tilts his head, leaning forward just a little bit, and he opens wider, eyes sliding closed—Jim gets the distinct impression that Spock couldn’t maintain eye contact through this. His cheeks are staining green again. He probably finds it shameful.

Vulcans and their taboos. Jim has no such reservations, and he takes the invitation. He pushes the white fruit against Spock’s bottom lip, until it pops inside Spock’s mouth, and Spock closes around Jim’s finger. Jim’s breath catches. He withdraws slowly, sliding free, moist at the tip. Spock chews and swallows, then licks his bottom lip, tongue darting out to erase the evidence. Jim’s fixated on it. As Spock’s eyes carefully flutter open again, Jim snatches up another fruit. 

This time, Spock protests, though he still won’t meet Jim’s gaze. “Jim, this is not...” he stops, maybe searching for the right word, then tries again, “Vulcans believe that it is unsanitary to eat with one’s hands.”

Any other time, Jim would nod and move on with his life, but he can still feel the ghost of Spock’s lips against his skin, and he can’t look away from Spock’s flushed face. He wishes the fruit were juicier so he could smear it along Spock’s plump bottom lip and watch it shimmer. 

He asks, “What about a husband’s hands?” They’re going to be married soon. They should _experience each other._

Spock’s fighting a battle—Jim can see it. His upbringing wants him to objection, but _he_ doesn’t. He wins out. He opens his mouth, staring, unseeing, down at the counter top. Jim brings the new piece up to push between Spock’s lips. Spock’s tongue finds it. Jim lingers as long as he can justify, the tip of his index finger weighing down Spock’s lip, and Spock’s tongue traces once over it before receding inside. When Jim drops his hand, Spock swallows.

Jim fetches another, and this time, Spock leans forward, enough that his mouth closes halfway around Jim’s finger and thumb. Jim dares to push deeper, feeling Spock’s tongue curling around his skin, and Spock closes his eyes again. He releases a quiet, muffled moan, and Jim shivers, feeling just the same way. He’s never thought of eating as particularly erotic, but Spock, however unintentionally, makes it a _show_. 

He laps at the piece of fruit within his mouth and begins to suckle on it, the suction sending one pleasurable spark after another through Jim’s body. He doesn’t dare pull his hand away. Spock sucks the fruit completely dry, then gently chews what’s left, still careful of the fingers in his mouth. Jim resists the urge to poke around—he doesn’t want to choke Spock. But he does want to stay _inside_ Spock, and it takes considerable effort to pull free.

He only retreats to the corner of Spock’s mouth. The flare of their contact is growing. He can feel it, like a kind of magic broiling beneath his skin, crawling up past his knuckles to his wrist, cascading up his nerves to invade his heart, his mind. Even with that prickling feeling, he spreads his fingers open and brushes them all along Spock’s face. He presses his palm to Spock’s chin and cups Spock’s cheek, thumbs Spock’s soft skin and lets his fingertips slide along the shell of Spock’s ear. Spock’s eyes are opening. Spock pierces him with one look, and for a moment, Jim’s sure they’re _connected_ , not just through skin-on-skin but something far, far deeper. He wonders if he could push himself forward into Spock’s mind, just like this, right now, even though he’s no telepath, but Spock should be, and Jim’s sure they could be _one_ with just the slightest nudge forward; he knows they’re both holding back, even though he’s sure Spock _wants this_ as badly he does.

He’s leaning across the island. He wants their bodies as close together as the rest of them. He tilts his face to the side, nose slipping along Spock’s, his lashes falling half closed. His lips part, and Spock opens for him. He can taste Spock’s breath—it’s sugar-sweet.

A shrill cry pierces the air, and Jim nearly jerks away, Spock doing so first—his head swivels to the window. Whatever it was is gone a heartbeat later, but it was there.

Jim’s heart is thumping loudly in his chest, the adrenaline all from mixed cues. Spock looks back at him for half a second.

Without a word, the two of them abandon the island, darting for the back door. There’s no time to grab the tricorder. Nothing’s changed outside—the beach is peaceful.

They circle quickly around the side of the house, find nothing, wind through the front, trace the other side, and get no clues. The longer it takes, the less Jim can even remember what the initial cry sounded like. Spock suggests no ideas. 

They fetch the tricorder. They don’t talk about what almost happened. Jim still _wants Spock_ , but the captain in him pushes that away. They’re on watch now. He wants Spock _whole_. They explore around their villa in a spiral pattern, silent and alert, looking for something they don’t find.


	5. Crumble

Outside the second estate they check, they find tracks. It’s a half-hidden trail, shadowed by foliage and rocks, not visible from their own property, but plain enough once the search is really _on_. It’s not exactly footprints but clearly an unnatural occurrence. It looks like the wake of something that’s been dragged.

Or something slithering, perhaps. Maybe many somethings with large, round, dragging feet. It’s too old to tell. The end near the house is fairly undisturbed, but it washes out down the beach, the water having lapped it clean. From the direction of it, Spock concludes, “It left into the water.”

“It?” Jim asks, knowing full well Spock won’t have an answer. He also won’t know if it was something going back to its natural habitat or deliberately wading through the tide, knowing that would wash any further tracks away. They still follow the disturbed sand down, and Jim’s newly grateful that the water’s as clear as it is—they’d see something unusual coming leagues away.

“Something heavy enough to make this deep an impression would be quite large,” Spock concludes, as though to add to Jim’s mental reassurance that they’re not in immediate danger from the shore. Jim reached the same decision just from the width of the path—around an arm’s length. Jim has nothing helpful to add, so he keeps quiet.

No matter how hard Jim stares at the horizon, there’s nothing unusual to look at. Whatever it was could’ve simply veered off, still along the coastline, but either way, it’s long gone by now. Jim takes a few steps forward into the water, trying to peer farther away. He can feel Spock following tightly behind him. The light’s fading—they’ll need to conduct all their investigations quickly. By dark, he intends to be home again. 

He wades out, still fully dressed, knowing getting wet won’t give him a cold on this planet. By the time he’s shoulder deep, he can duck under the surface, but that reveals nothing new. He turns back to Spock and finds that Spock’s followed only to waist-level, tricorder still in hand. He’s turned back towards their villa, and Jim quickly discovers why—one of the water snakes is slithering over the surface. It’s about as wide as Jim’s wrist but no more than three or four hands long, and Spock doesn’t look the least bit worried as the creature approaches him. Jim still wades closer, tense, but when the snake reaches Spock, it simply winds around his side, passing right by. How it manages to stay atop the water, Jim has no idea. Spock mutters under his breath, “Fascinating.”

Spock seems to find a lot of things fascinating. Jim imagines the water snake’s interest is a separate thing from their current mystery, because Spock offers no correlations between it and the large skins they found earlier. Jim still considers the possibility—maybe this snake is just a baby, and somewhere out there, there’s a giant mother snake finding humanoids to feed to her young. 

Clearly, Spock has no fear of that. He calmly operates his instrument while the water laps at his stomach, gluing the bottom of his shirt to his chest. Jim didn’t think he’d come in the water in his pants, but obviously, Spock isn’t so uptight as Jim thought him. Maybe he’s just too distracted to notice how _improper_ swimming clothed is. Jim doesn’t say anything to ruin that.

He walks closer, disturbing the water as little as possible, as though Spock’s a delicate animal that Jim doesn’t want to startle away. Seeing Spock wet—even if only halfway and still dressed—puts Jim’s mind spinning off course. He wants them to go swimming again, though now they can’t go far out. They probably shouldn’t at all. Maybe they can find an indoor pool. Or maybe Jim can suck Spock into the shower, shorts-free, and watch that water cascade down his bare skin, slicking him up and making his muscles shine and acting as lubrication when Jim inevitably flattens them together and grinds into Spock, maybe hikes him up against the tile wall and consummates this relationship properly.

It’s not a helpful train of thought, but Jim entertains it anyway while he waits out Spock’s work. There’s something strangely alluring about the look on Spock’s face when he’s concentrating, thinking, all his intelligence plain in his eyes. He’s a hard worker—he’ll be a valuable officer. _Jim’s_ valuable officer. And he’ll be great eye candy while does it, especially in the fading light of an alien sun and his body wet from the waist down. 

Finally, Spock turns off the tricorder, frowning, and Jim doesn’t have to ask: he knows. It wasn’t helpful.

Spock turns to look at Jim, an almost apologetic glint in his eye, and Jim tries to cheer him up by saying, “At least we’re not facing this alone. I’m glad we have each other.”

Spock nods slowly and adds, “It would likely be best if we continued to stay together. There are still no signs of struggle or evidence of kidnapping, but in the face of the unknown, such precautions seem advisable.”

“Agreed.” Then he gives it some extra thought and adds, “It’s a shame we’ll still be spending it as fiancés—we were probably meant to be married by now, but it looks like we won’t be getting our officiate after all.”

He expects Spock to say something along the lines of how little a difference the nature of their official status would weigh on the passage of time, but instead, Spock simply says, “We will be able to conduct the ceremony when your ship returns for us.”

“Our ship,” Jim automatically corrects, even though for so long it’s been _his_. He’s quickly gotten into the habit of sharing with Spock. Then he throws in a smile, more pleased by the fact that Spock so completely intends to marry him than the suggestion itself. He supposes it doesn’t really matter if they’re married today or a few days later. Maybe it’ll give him time to find rings, though he’d have to be creative about it; clearly he can’t just go to a jeweler. He doesn’t know if Vulcans use rings. Probably not. It might not stop Jim from providing one, once he’s safely back in the Federation and all its endless resources.

Here, he’ll be lucky to make a ring out of grass. He’s not even sure if Mrennenimians have twist ties. Given their prior record, maybe they have cockrings. Jim still hasn’t checked out the lubrication storage space under his bed. Spock probably won’t know the difference. Not that it would be the right size.

Shaking his head to clear all the dirty nonsense, Jim heads past Spock and suggests, “Let’s get back before it’s dark.”

Spock follows like he always does, though Jim waits for him to catch up on the shore.

* * *

They change out of their wet clothes into more homely things, Jim in sweats and a white t-shirt and Spock to loose, still-black pants and a long-sleeve teal shirt. The sunset’s turned the light through the windows a kind of orange-purple, and the kitchen’s empty. Jim thinks of cooking but finds himself too on edge for it and wouldn’t know where to start. Instead, he finds a box of crackers, and he weaves back through the house to find Spock in the living room.

Cross-legged on the couch, Spock’s spread out his equipment across the coffee table: his tricorder, a communicator, a PADD and two Synthesizer chips. He doesn’t look up while Jim wanders over to the other side of the couch, but he does say, “I do not have adequate parts.”

“Parts?” Jim asks, settling on, closer to Spock’s spot than the other armrest. 

“If I were able to obtain the right equipment, it is possible that I could devise a stronger radio signal. I would be unable to contact a starship, but perhaps there are others elsewhere on this planet in our position.”

“A good idea,” Jim admits, impressed with the initiative. “We can go looking for what you need tomorrow.”

Spock straightens up, nodding thanks, and looks sideways at Jim. 

They’re back to where they were yesterday. It’s not the same moment, but it’s close enough, and Jim _wants_ to go back to it. He’s not sure if Spock’s the type to make a meal out of crackers, but he could tip the box towards Spock’s hand. Instead, he unclasps the top and sticks his hand in, withdrawing a small, yellow-white wafer. Spock’s eyes falls to it, and he hesitates a moment, then overturns his palm, as though expecting to be given one. 

Instead, Jim brings the cracker up to Spock’s face, waits for acknowledgement in Spock’s look, then presses it against Spock’s lips. Spock’s eyelids fall a millimeter down, lips parting slightly but not enough. Jim has a difficult time deciding where to look—Spock has so many gorgeous features, so many delightful reactions, so many nuances and little temptations—then he tilts the cracker to run it along Spock’s bottom lips and poke towards the inside.

Spock opens up, head tilting down, and Jim doesn’t withdraw like he should. He lets Spock bite the cracker in half, and he holds the rest where it is, watching tiny crumbs break along Spock’s lips, licked away by a quick, probing tongue. Spock leans closer on the second bite, mouth closing around the tips of Jim’s fingers, and Jim drops his saliva-slicked hand down Spock’s chin as he leaves. 

He fetches another cracker and does the same thing, except now he turns his body to face Spock and dares to toss his legs over Spock’s lap. Spock’s arms have to move back to avoid being hit, to avoid contact, though Jim can already feel the warmth of Spock’s thighs through their pants. He uses his other hand to cup Spock’s chin, thumb’s Spock’s cheek, and gently guide his jaw open. Jim pushes in another cracker. He caresses Spock’s face and rubs Spock’s throat, watching him chew and _feeling_ him swallow, and this time, Spock makes no protest, says nothing of how filthy it is to eat with one’s hands, with another person’s hands, with two at once. Spock’s still and compliant as Jim slowly feeds him, bringing him one cracker after another and enjoying every second.

Spock must enjoy it too, because his awkwardness fades. He leans forward a little more, breathes just a little bit harder, feels just that tiny bit _hotter_ with each one. By the sixth, he’s lingering, letting his tongue catch around Jim’s thumb, and by the seventh, he licks at Jim’s fingers beyond any excuse, clearly getting into it with fervor—Jim might’ve been right, perhaps he has been sheltered, too busy being logical to feel _pleasure_ , and now can’t help but manifest it in even the smallest, most basic of ways. 

Spock says nothing while he waits between snacks, but his face says volumes. His body looks almost like it’s trembling, suppressing tremours, and Jim thinks of telling Spock _it’s okay, let go_ , but doesn’t want to break the magic again. By the tenth cracker, Spock stops avoiding eye contact and pierces Jim with a fire-hot stare that freezes Jim’s hand, Spock having to bend nearly in two to reach it. He bites too far, maybe on purpose, and hungrily licks the crumbs off Jim’s skin. 

Jim can’t stop a moan. He wants to twist his hand and thrust fingers into Spock’s mouth, fuck him with them, or put a cracker between his own teeth and share it, force a kiss. His hand hesitates fetching the next cracker, his body paralyzed with lewd thoughts of where to take this—it’s going _somewhere_ —he’s overheated and can tell that Spock is too, can see the _hunger_ in Spock’s eyes, not for food but his future husband. They could consummate it right here. Jim doesn’t care how. He doesn’t know what to do. He _wants_ Spock so badly that he’s shorted out his mind with all the possibilities, and Spock waits for him. 

Spock moves first, twisting lightly to burry his hand in the box. He retracts a cracker of his own and brings it, tentatively, almost curiously, up to Jim’s mouth. 

Jim doesn’t have Spock’s subtlety. He lunges forward to cover Spock’s fingers, lips opening wide, tongue twisting around the food and barely tasting the salty vanilla flavour, instead concentrating on _Spock’s skin_ —he laps away at it. When Spock tries to pull back, Jim grabs his wrist, holds him firm, and sucks his fingers as deep as Jim can take them. Spock lets out a needy noise like a muffled moan or desperate whine. Jim’s rock-hard. It’s not about the food for Spock, he thinks: it’s their _hands_. He should’ve known. Long after the cracker’s gone, Jim licks between Spock’s fingers, swallows around them and lightly scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin, and he looks up through his lashes while he does it, encouraged by Spock’s lust-wrecked expression.

Jim only pulls off Spock’s hand when he can’t take it anymore. A thin trail of saliva follows him, his thumb shifting from Spock’s pulse to trace his lifeline. Spock shivers. Jim leans up to him, tilting, ready to _meld them together_ , but Spock, to Jim’s massive disappointment, leans slightly away.

Jim stays where is, unwilling to move forward when Spock’s sudden, traitorous signals say _no_. He’d thought they were doing so well. Spock looks like he _wants it_ , but that’s not enough. He licks his lips, not erotically but nervously, then mumbles, whisper-light, “Perhaps we... may we play chess?”

Chess. Jim’s heart drops. He has the sudden urge to laugh, but not at all with humour. 

He sits back up properly. Still hard, still panting. Still hot all over. His legs are still across Spock’s lap. He wonders if he’s pushed for something Spock never wanted to give, or if he just went too fast, too soon. He hopes the latter. He wonders if Spock’s afraid of emotions, and he hopes not, because he doesn’t know how to fix that. 

He mumbles a weak, “Sure,” and staunchly ignores the signals his dick’s sending his brain. If Spock needs a distraction, needs space, Jim will give him that. Spock looks at Jim for a long, difficult minute, which does nothing to alleviate the tent in Jim’s pants. 

Very, very slowly, Spock murmurs, “Perhaps it would be best if I... if we were to share a room tonight. For safety.”

If Jim’s not allowed to touch Spock beyond finger foods, he thinks that’s a terrible idea. But he still can’t stop himself from muttering, dry-mouthed, “Sure.”

* * *

It takes two games for Jim’s erection to completely disappear, and by the end of the third, he’s too tired to keep playing. The whole day’s been a roller coaster. Spock moves to reset the board, but Jim flicks his king over as soon as Spock’s righted it, saying, “We have to sleep sometime.”

Spock nods. He doesn’t look tired, but Jim gets the impression he never will. Jim suggests, “We should probably move your essentials into the master suite, just in case we have to make a quick exit.”

Spock’s eyebrows knit together, perhaps not having considered that. Maybe his mind’s been busy with other things, like Jim’s. He nods and climbs off the couch, and Jim, more stiffly and around a nod, does the same. 

Spock’s guest room is considerably smaller, his belongings sparse. Jim pulls all of Spock’s clothes out of the drawers and stuffs them back in his duffle bag atop the living room gadgets while he uses the washroom and packs up his things there. He has no knickknacks, no decorations. They leave the chess set in the living room—it’ll add weight they won’t need if they have to flee and survive elsewhere until the Enterprise returns. They can always synthesize a new one. When Spock emerges from the washroom, Jim hikes the duffle bag over his shoulder and leads them out.

In the master suite, Jim heads to his own washroom. He means to just do the basic—use the toilet and brush his teeth—but he winds up standing in front of the mirror, scratching the first traces of stubble and finger-combing out his hair. He looks decent. He’s not as confident as usual, even though he _knows_ Spock’s attracted to him. He knows this is going fast. Maybe that’s it. He tells himself it won’t matter anyway—they’re obviously going to sleep with the lights off. It’s still difficult not to fidget and wonder if he could do anything _more_ , something irresistible that will lead to testing lewd Mrennenimian flavours.

Naturally, he thinks of nothing, and eventually wanders back into the bedroom. Spock’s already sitting in bed, a loose blue v-neck pajama shirt on. He’s got the blankets neatly folded over his lap, and his perfect posture makes him look like something out of an ancient TV-show, back when decency laws made everything look corny and unnatural. At the end of the bed, Jim mutters, “Uh, I didn’t bring pajamas... is boxers and a shirt okay?”

Spock, thin-lipped and oddly difficult to read, says, “Yes.” Jim nods and still pauses, but he tells himself that if Spock were uncomfortable with this, he wouldn’t have suggested they sleep together. If he changed his mind, surely he’d let Jim know. He’s pulled away from Jim a couple times now; he knows how to say ‘no.’ So Jim sucks in a breath and shuffles out of his pants, tossing them onto a chair in the corner afterwards. Spock lifts his eyebrow but says nothing. Jim’s got a whole stack of discarded clothes—their guide didn’t explain laundry, but he brought enough clothes for the week he’ll be here. 

Jim draws the curtains over his window first, then wanders to the button on the wall that dials down the lights, but it’s not dark enough to obscure his path back to the bed. He walks back around to the left side—Spock already sitting on the right—and he tries not to wish the bed were smaller. Even with Spock cutting it in half, there’s too much mattress between them. 

It’s probably a good thing that, as not-quite-black as the room is, he can’t make out much of Spock anymore. The last thing he needs is an eyeful of pretty Vulcan under the same blankets as him. He shuffles down, tucking himself in, and Spock’s already there, rolling to face away from Jim. It’s probably smart. Jim does the same and tries to keep his whole body on his side of the bed, not even letting a foot stray.

He shuts his eyes and tries to shut off his mind, finds that impossible, tries to count shuttlecrafts like sheep, and ultimately, tries to think of anything but _Spock_.

He can smell Spock. It’s a subtle scent, but there, unique and difficult to describe, alluring more because Jim’s grown fond of it than on any merit of its own. When he concentrates, he can hear the sound of Spock’s steady breathing. He feels like if he just reached out, not with his hands but his _mind_ , he could _touch_ Spock, wrap them up together, the way it is whenever they brush skin on skin.

He spends as much time as he can resisting it, which might be a few minutes or an hour, either way too long, and then he gives in with an irritated sigh. He should have more self-control than that. But Jim Kirk isn’t used to sleeping with people without _sleeping with them_ , and he’s never wanted to so much in his life. He knows he can’t spend the rest of his marriage—the rest of his time as a Starfleet captain—like this.

He rolls back over, aware that Spock can probably feel and hear the sudden shift in the mattress and blankets, and he squirms closer, not enough to touch but as close as he can, until his breath is raising the little hairs on the back of Spock’s neck and he can feel the ghost of Spock’s body. 

He whispers, “Spock?” And he half hopes Spock won’t answer, so that Jim can just relocate to the couch—only one doorway and half a hall away, close enough—and not push Spock any further away.

But Spock murmurs, “Jim?” It sounds almost sleep-addled. Cute. Too cute. Spock’s always that way without ever trying.

Jim doesn’t know how to explain what he wants. So he allows himself to just do it, to close that tiny distance between them. He presses his face into the crook of Spock’s neck, his body flattening into Spock’s, chest to back, and he knows he should stop but can’t, lets his legs curl into Spock’s, his knees pressing into the back of Spock’s and his ankles wrapping around Spock’s calves, one arm worming under Spock’s waist to wrap around it and the other lopping over. He can hear Spock’s breath catching. Spock’s tense but so _warm_ , and even through all their clothes, Jim feels the now-familiar surge of their connection. It’s everywhere: his whole body. He can _feel_ Spock’s pleasure, Spock’s hesitance, Spock’s struggle for... something.

Control, Jim thinks. He asks, just as terrified but for all different reasons, “Is this okay?”

Spock takes longer to answer than Jim would like, and despite how much Jim seems to know through this ephemeral bond of theirs, he’s not sure what Spock will say. But Spock finally sighs, “ _Yes_ ,” and his head arches back, leaning against Jim’s. The press of their cheeks makes Jim shiver. Spock stretches, something like a cat, and it rubs all of them together. He shifts, squirms, and it could be readjusting but feels more like he’s _snuggling_ back into Jim. He doesn’t turn around. That’s probably for the best. Jim would have far more difficulty controlling himself.

Somehow, this is enough. Jim knows everything’s okay, and Spock’s weight is reassuring, comforting, uplifting. Even with the full breadth of Spock’s shape in his arms, Jim manages to resist getting them into any more of a complicated situation. Baby steps. Baby touching, feeding, spooning steps. It’s only now that he has Spock in his grasp that he’s able to succumb to how truly tired he is. 

He drifts off with Spock’s heartbeat beneath his palm.


	6. Candor

For once, Jim wakes up first.

He lets out a steady breath, lets the dream slip away, and then he breathes in deep and opens his eyes.

He’s met with Spock’s face, sharing his pillow, nestled up close against him, the sunlight pouring in through the curtains to silhouette Spock’s side. His arms are drawn close to his chest, pajama shirt slipping sensually down one shoulder, the blankets pulled nearly up to his chin. He looks blissfully _peaceful_. His bangs are slightly askew—messy in the pillow. All Jim can think is that Spock’s _beautiful_.

And he’s _Jim’s_. This is what Jim will wake up to for the rest of his life, if he’s lucky. It’ll change slightly, bit by bit: wrinkles will form and grey hairs will creep in, but Jim will be older too, and Spock will always be right for him. His chest constricts with a burst of sentiment, no concrete feeling but this delightful moment, and he’s bizarrely grateful to the institution he was cursing just a week ago. They must get thousands of matches wrong, but they got this one right.

Maybe from Jim’s breath against his face, Spock slowly stirs. He shifts under the blankets, not by much but enough, and his cheek nuzzles deeper into the pillow—Jim has to hold himself back to not roll down to the indent. Then Spock lets out an adorable yawn, hand rising up to cover his mouth, and his lashes flutter halfway up. 

He spots Jim, and Jim smiles, mumbling, “Good morning, future husband.”

Jim thinks the corner of Spock’s mouth might twitch up, but he can’t be sure. The peace doesn’t leave Spock’s face. But he takes his minute to stretch and wake up, long legs going taut beneath the covers and brushing Jim’s bent knees in the process, shoulders stiffening. When he relaxes again, he simply looks at Jim, and Jim looks back, wondering distantly if it’d be possible to stay here, right here, for the rest of the day and week and maybe lifetime.

He’d get bored, of course. He’d miss his ship. But right now, it seems a tempting prospect, at least until Spock frowns. 

He asks, equally as quiet as Jim was to match the tranquil atmosphere, “Jim... may I ask you something?”

“Anything,” Jim answers, not even having to think about it, though Spock pauses before he goes on. 

“You have... I have gotten the impression on several occasions that you are unsure if I would wish to proceed with... this.” When Jim nods, Spock adds, “I hope I have clarified that. That I do. ...But I confess I have the same worry with you.”

Worrying doesn’t sound particularly Vulcan, and somehow, Jim recognizes that as an admission of vulnerability—something only for Jim’s ears. He appreciates that trust. He knows Spock wants honesty, and he winds up saying more than he means to. “I’ll admit, I was dubious at first. ...But we do make a good team, you and I. And I enjoy spending time with you. All of it.”

Jim isn’t quite finished, but his pause is long enough that Spock must think he is, because Spock jumps in. “We are mentally compatible.” It sounds like an absolute rather than a new conclusion. 

Jim’s reached the same conclusion, but he still asks, “How do you know?”

To his surprise, Spock asks softly, “May I touch you?”

Jim instantly says, “Yes.”

There’s still a moment where Spock seems to gather himself. But then his arm moves, his hand reaching forward, and the palm of it presses lightly against Jim’s cheek, proverbial electricity bristling immediately between them. Spock’s fingers trace back into Jim’s hair, petting gently, Spock’s thumb splaying out along Jim’s face, and Jim shivers—he can _feel it_. He understands. Spock murmurs, “ _This_ ,” and explains no more. He doesn’t have to. He strokes along Jim’s cheek a few times, each little touch heating Jim to his core. It’s like they’re connected, bonding already, on a much deeper level than a ring and a piece of paper. Spock enjoys it; Jim knows that. Can feel it. After a while, Jim can’t take it anymore, and he lifts his own hand to cover Spock’s. He wants _more_.

But he holds himself at bay, licks his lips, and sighs, “I’m glad I was given a Vulcan so I can know this.”

“It is not usually this strong,” Spock concedes, and Jim can see the truth in his eyes—the surprise and fascination with the depth of their growing link. “And I am only half Vulcan.”

If Jim weren’t holding Spock’s hand against him, he’d be shocked. Spock seems the epitome of everything all Vulcans are. But in some ways, there are small places where this explains things, makes sense, and it’s hard to be truly surprised with anything about Spock when they’re attached like this: on some level, he _knows everything_. It opens up a whole new world that Jim wants to ask about, but Spock goes on, “It is enough for the touch-telepathy to confirm our match.”

Jim, drawn back to that subject, says, “There are human ways to test.” Spock lifts his eyebrow—Jim takes it as an invitation.

He closes his fingers around Spock’s hand to hold it still, and he closes the tiny distance between them. He brushes his lips over Spock’s, knowing he probably has morning breath and not caring, and that gives him sparks, too, the familiar stir of interest, of _want_ , but on so many different levels. He doesn’t push it, though. Spock doesn’t open his mouth. When Jim settles back along the pillow, Spock looks vaguely troubled. He gently retracts his hand, and Jim lets him go. 

He explains right after, “I am sorry. I... have always strived to be Vulcan.” Jim nods like he understands, even if he can’t. It seems to encourage Spock to say, “My father is from a prestigious line, and he expects much of me. I was raised on Vulcan and kept strictly to that culture. But I... my emotions...” he cuts off and his face nearly flinches, the struggle all over his face. Jim takes his hand again but leaves it between them, squeezing once, reassuring, and though Jim wouldn’t have made him, Spock goes on, “I have difficulty, on occasion, maintaining the control I should have.” Before Jim can say that Spock shouldn’t have to control his emotions at all, Spock adds, “And an emotional outburst from a Vulcan can be dangerous.”

With full confidence, Jim insists, “I can handle it.” That’s not something he’s worried about. Spock looks skeptical, but Jim’s firm. He understands now, or as much as he can. He’s holding Spock’s eyes, and he tells those as much as Spock’s ears, “It’s okay. It is. We can go as slow as you want and stop whenever you need. I’ll hold back in public, around others—whatever part of you you don’t want to show, you never have to share with anyone else. ...But with me, you don’t need to hide it or control anything. You can be anything with me.”

He half expects a debate on it, but Spock simply says, “I know.” And Jim grins so wide his face almost hurts. Spock’s lips do curl up slightly at the ends in the subtlest of smiles. In so short a time, he trusts Jim, and that means the world. 

“It is complicated,” Spock murmurs, after a moment of them just staring at one another. “But I do want you.”

“I want you too.”

Jim’s barely finished reiterating it when Spock leans across the pillow. He tilts his face, Jim following, and he parts his lips enough for Jim to taste his faintly stale breath. Jim’s frozen in shock and delight as Spock brings their mouths together. Spock’s kiss is slow at first, but then it presses harder, harder, and Jim lets his tongue poke out to trace Spock’s opening. Spock opens wider, and Jim dives in. 

His hands shoot out of the blankets. One slides under Spock’s body, treasuring the weight and warmth, the other rising to Spock’s silk-soft hair. Spock doesn’t pull away but leans into the touch, rolling closer. Jim threads his fingers into Spock’s hair and delights in holding it still while his tongue probes about Spock’s mouth, tracing teeth, tongue, walls, everything. He can feel the same lightening spark he always does but magnified, better, the pleasure of simple _touch_ and affection laced into it, and his head fogs with that; he moans around Spock’s mouth. Spock meets him back with almost equal fervor, stuttering restraint at points and bursts of life at others. One kiss turns into another, then another, and Jim goes as deep as he can, presses as hard as he can. He just barely manages to stop himself short of rolling on top of Spock. 

He does pull back, because he can feel Spock starting to tremble, and he doesn’t want to push Spock too far at once. They’re already going fast, when he steps back long enough to see it. And they both need to brush their teeth. 

Still smiling uncontrollably, Jim chuckles, “At least one good think about a quiet planet is that I don’t have to share you with anyone else yet. We can just be... us.”

Spock, in his own neutral way, looks pleased with that. But he has his own restraint and quietly suggests, “We should get breakfast.”

* * *

Breakfast is charmingly pleasant. They gather quick things—ready-to-eat fruits and crackers and something that looks like a carrot but tastes like beans, which Spock insists has nutritional value they need. They don’t feed each other, but Jim brushes their hands or shoulders or knees together whenever he gets the chance. They go through a brief list of the essentials Spock needs to put together the right radio equipment. Spock voices his concern that, “Even in the absence of our hosts, it would be unacceptable for Federation officers to steal.”

Jim counters, “It would be unacceptable for anyone to steal, but we won’t. We’ll see what we can find in public assistance places—that’s close enough. And you’ll have to be careful not to cannibalize anything you can’t put back together. We’ll return everything later.”

It’s not an ideal situation, but Spock seems to accept that, and they take the walk to town fully alert, though they find nothing out of the ordinary.

Jim suggests they check dumpsters, but they have difficulty locating any garbage. There must be a disposal facility _somewhere_ , but they have no way of finding it, and Jim winds up searching the square for anything like brochures while Spock scans for electronic equipment. The lights in all the buildings are on but nothing else. When Spock finally deduces, “That building must serve as the equivalent of a library,” Jim abandons his search—he’s not willing to let them split up again for more than one reason.

The library is a particularly tall building with a lobby sporting ball pits on either side, like a waterless moat with a bridge through the middle. The room beyond that isn’t so different than most worlds’ libraries. Books—hard copies, digital cylinders, and data chips, line floor to ceiling shelves. A wide reception area boasts computers and scanning equipment, which Spock walks to but notes, “These facilities would still be considered property of the government.”

“And the government is hosting us and supposed to be preventing or doom,” Jim mentions. When Spock lifts an eyebrow, Jim rephrases, “Objection noted but overruled. Take what you need, Commander. Captain’s orders.”

Spock must find some small comfort in the veil of duty, because he shelves any more protests and moves around the desk. He sets his tricorder on top of a console and deftly pries a metal panel off one of the scanning machines, peering in at the various wires.

Jim’s good with electronics but likely not enough for this, and he’s sure Spock’s perfectly capable of handling it. So he just crosses his arms over the desk and leans on it, letting Spock work. 

He’s fairly certain Spock can multitask, so he decides to strike up conversation while he waits. “I grew up on a farm in Iowa. I have one brother—he’s off on a colony world now, already married. We don’t talk much, but I’m sure if I showed up on his doorstep with you on my arm, he’d invite us in for dinner.” Spock pauses his work, looking up with a lifted brow, but Jim rolls on to make it clear he’s not expecting anything from Spock in return for his random spiel. “My dad was in Starfleet, but he died when I was born. My mother raised me. All human.” He wants to end with: ‘and you?’ but doesn’t.

Spock responds anyway, not looking up, “My father is an ambassador, my mother an accomplished linguist. They live on Vulcan. I have...” But he pauses again, eyes flicking up to Jim. He seems to consider something for a long moment, then returns to the panel beneath his fingers and continues, “I have one half-brother, but he has chosen not to follow Surak’s teachings, and we do not speak of him.”

“You mean he’s emotional,” Jim clarifies, shocked. Spock shakes his head lightly.

“No. It is more complicated than that. He has been known to use certain Vulcan techniques to... I would prefer not to speak of him. He is not a part of my life and therefore irrelevant.”

Curiosity claws at Jim’s mind, but he can see the trouble on Spock’s face again, and he knows it isn’t worth upsetting Spock. His own family isn’t so bad, but he knows that blood doesn’t always warrant a relationship, and he wants to respect that. So he says, “Okay,” and changes the subject. “I heard Vulcans sometimes have arranged marriages outside of Starfleet.”

“Yes.”

“Did your father to your mother?”

“No. She is human.”

“Did you?”

More hesitation, but this conversation is still coming relatively easy, and Spock eventually settles on, “Yes. But she did not want me and bonded to another.”

Jim doesn’t ask why—he thinks he knows—Spock said, when they first talked of their requests, that he didn’t want another Vulcan because he wasn’t suited to them. Maybe Spock’s intended didn’t want a half human. Jim just says, “Her loss.” Spock looks up from his work, and Jim smiles.

After a few more minutes, Jim asks, “Am I hotter than she was?”

He meant it as a joke and half expects Spock to ask what temperature has to do with it, but Spock simply answers, “Yes,” without bothering to look up. Jim chuckles fondly and comes around the counter to start gathering up supplies.

* * *

After a bit of fiddling with the translator, Jim manages a fairly workable rhythm with the alien computer. It’s no help in answering his questions, but he has free access to public records, and while Spock works on sending a transmission out, Jim scans all the transmissions that came in.

The news broadcasts Jim goes through are spottily translated at best, but he feels like he’d be able to recognize any large discrepancies. There are no signs of foreknowledge of an attack. There’s no panic. It’s business as usual—for an alien world, anyway—and Jim finds himself going through one bland weather report after another, interspersed with reviews of various forms of art and the occasional promotion of spheres which Jim surmises must go in the ball pits. After two hours of searching, the only thing Jim’s learned of Mrennenimian culture is that their senohpolyx rooms are something akin to ball collections, as opposed to the childlike playground he first assumed. Two rival companies are currently competing for the top spot in the glow-in-the-dark rubber ball space. There’s a heated debate on how many breasts is too many breasts on a single humanoid statue. It’s been discovered that a renowned artist is actually a coalition of three separate people working in tandem. A local restaurant believes sandwiches can be made in a perfect sphere and are offering a monetary reward for the first chef to bring them such a recipe. No one has any intention of being eaten by a giant snake, being kidnapped in the middle of the night, or evolving with most of their bodies but not their outermost layer of skin.

As interesting as alien cultures usually are, Jim hits a point where his research is too boring to stand, and he can feel himself wanting to nod off. He does his best to stay awake anyway—if Spock’s off working, Jim might as well be useful. But his senses grow so dulled that he doesn’t notice anything coming up behind him until there’s weight on his shoulders.

Startled, he tenses, straightening up, and looks back to find Spock standing behind him, frowning lightly. When Jim relaxes again, the frown loosens. Spock’s hands are on his shoulders, and Spock asks, “Have you found anything of note?”

“Nothing that’ll help us,” Jim rephrases, because another person might find the artistic abundance of breasts noteworthy, but Spock probably wouldn’t, and while Spock might be able to scientifically achieve a perfectly spherical sandwich, no one’s around to give them the reward. “You?”

“While my transmission should be able to reach seven more coastal Mrennenimian cities, including the capital, I have, as of yet, received no answer. I have left the broadcast on repeat and tied in the computer to record any responses.”

“A good precaution,” Jim notes, while Spock’s hands squeeze ever so slightly at his shoulders before slipping down his back.

Jim’s surprised with it but carefully doesn’t move while Spock rubs at his shoulder blades, working his muscles in symmetrical circles. It’s sudden and not something he’d expect from Spock, touch-reserved as he usually is, but after a moment of comfortable silence, Spock explains, “When I approached you, you appeared stressed, as such fruitless efforts would likely do to a human captain. ...My mother would occasionally administer this treatment to my father when he was similarly burdened.”

“And he allowed it?” Jim asks, knowing nothing of Spock’s father beyond strict expectations.

“It is not that different from Vulcan neuro-pressure.”

Jim nods and says, “Thank you.” He doubts Vulcans have anything truly similar to a massage, but he’s not about to argue it—he hasn’t had a good massage in a long, long time, and it’s something far more appetizing from a partner than any other. Besides that, it becomes quickly apparent that Spock’s _good_ at it, which Jim notes with delight: _Spock’s good with his hands_.

Jim’s seated on a bench pulled up to the console of the secondary living room, and Spock stays behind him, kneading his flesh in alternating patterns at a steady, firm pace. Spock presses hard but not painfully so, each movement intentional, fully devised, and it feels practiced—Jim can’t help but wonder if Spock’s done this before. He can’t imagine Spock touching someone else this way, though he doesn’t know if Spock’s had lovers in the past. Vulcans don’t seem the type to have casual affairs. Even if Spock’s only half so, he clearly wants to be fully Vulcan in his actions. Jim’s not sure he wants to know and isn’t ready to ask. He doesn’t say anything, just concentrates on luxuriating in the exquisite feeling of having his body expertly worked. 

There’s an edge to it. Even through his shirt, he can _feel_ Spock deeply, and the touches have enough force to stir him, unwind him, make him think of lewd things—of touches like this without their clothing, in bed, lying flat along the mattress with Spock atop him. It feels so wondrous that he can’t stay silent forever, and too soon, he lets out a low moan, trying vainly to muffle it. Spock simply continues on in utter quiet. Jim tries to control himself but grows nonetheless hotter and hotter, breath coming harder. He should’ve put this on his forms: _masseuse partner wanted._ He doesn’t know what he ever did to warrant such luck: a beautiful, competent first officer, lovely to wake up to and better to touch, to kiss, willing to follow him anywhere and then come back and massage him. Maybe it’s good the natives are gone. Now Spock can carry on like this for as long as he likes without fear of interruption.

That’s a horrible thought, of course. Jim is resolved to find the Mrennenimians. But it’s hard, sometimes, to remember them, when he has _Spock_ already in his arms.

Spock’s hands still all too soon, and he suggests quietly, “I can make dinner.”

Jim means to say, ‘thanks,’ but instead asks, “Can you finish this after?”

Spock nods, visibly restraining a smile. Jim wants to praise him, so climbs off the bench and turns around, stretching, and places a kiss to Spock’s cheek, beaming wide.

* * *

They patch a communicator into the radio and leave it open on the table, set on receive should anyone reply to their message. While they wait without luck, Jim sprawls along the couch on his stomach, and Spock straddles his hips, settling down on the back of his thighs. As Spock’s hands lower, Jim mutters, “Wait.” Then he gets up on his elbows and pulls off his shirt, tossing it aside. Settling back and glancing over his shoulder, he asks, “’That alright?”

Spock nods and has that sort of stiff expression that Jim’s learned is the strain of trying not to blush. 

Jim plans to return the favour on the first chance he gets, but now, he’s going to take everything Spock will give. He squirms into place and sighs happily, while Spock returns to Jim’s back. Their bond grows sharper, the touch more powerful, with Jim’s shirt gone. Even with the sun halfway set, it’s still plenty warm enough on Mrennenimus to lie about half-naked. He can feel all the warmth of Spock’s skin. Spock splays out ten fingers across Jim’s shoulder blades, then slides back into his spine. 

Like before, Spock delivers a perfect massage, both wondrously relaxing and strongly charged, each touch a new delight. Steady and patient, Spock rubs him, kneads him, digs into his flesh and circles his muscles, ebbing away any points of tension that dare to form. It’s possibly the most pleasurable experience Jim’s ever had besides sex itself, and he finds himself smiling happily, eyes closed and neck turned, cheek against one white cushion. He just barely fits along the full length of the couch, and it’s wide enough to support Spock’s knees to either side of him. Spock’s weight is a nice reminder of his presence. Spock’s touch is _everything_. Jim soaks it in, peaceful. 

The only problem with it is just how relaxing it is—Jim has to fight for consciousness. He doesn’t want to fall asleep and miss a single second, but he also doesn’t dare move, and it’s impossible not to fall into the idyllic lull of Spock’s hands, so alluring and sweet, personal—this is intimate, and yet Jim can _feel_ Spock’s comfort through their tenuous connection, pulsing clearer every time the soft pads of Spock’s fingers dig into him. He can feel a heat in Spock beyond simple temperature, and the flare of it calls Jim’s attention. He focuses on it, feeling both his own body, the edges of his skin, and the inner flame between them. He fans it greater. He hears Spock have a sharp intake of breath, hands fidgeting once, almost imperceptibly, but Jim’s tuned to Spock’s frequency and catches it.

Jim lets himself moan, exactly as low and lewd as he wants to, to show his pleasure, to encourage Spock. It works. Spock’s ministrations continue all the harder. 

After a good half an hour, maybe an hour, during which Spock never seems to tire, he lowers over Jim, his weight shifting, and Jim feels the ghost of Spock’s breath over the back of his neck. 

Spock’s lips brush his skin; Jim gasps.

Spock presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the top of Jim’s spine, and Jim can’t stop himself from squirming, from trying to press up into it, _moaning_ again. He should’ve known they wouldn’t be able to share a simple massage, not with how compatible they are, how much Jim _wants Spock_. His fingers tighten to fists at his sides, but he keeps them down and lets Spock set the pace. Spock licks across Jim’s shoulders, nipping lightly, subtle and almost experimental—he’d said Vulcans were dangerous once they let go. Jim entertains the brief fantasy of Spock pinning him down, biting him hard and _ravishing him_ , and he can almost feel the erotic daydream reverberating up into Spock’s consciousness. Spock’s mouth spreads wider, teeth digging deeper. It doesn’t hurt yet, but he makes a noise that’s stifled by Jim’s flesh, and Jim can feel the moisture and heat from it. It makes him shiver, groan. Spock’s hands are still touching Jim, but they aren’t massaging any more so much as _feeling him_ , running flat up his sides and tracing the contours of his hips. Jim mutters a week, “ _Spock_...”

Spock wraps one arm around Jim’s body, pulling Jim up into him, Spock’s strong arm flattened into his chest and sandwiched between Jim and the couch. Then Spock rolls his hips down, grinding along Jim’s ass, and Jim moans exactly as wantonly as he feels. 

Spock kisses the side of his neck. Spock ruts into him again, then again, body rolling in a graceful arch and crotch dragging along the hump of Jim’s rear, working quickly into a steady beat. Jim can already feel the bulge in Spock’s pants, getting bigger and harder on each drag. He presses his own ass back into it, presses his body up into Spock’s, and Spock tightens his grip on Jim, the other arm steadying him. Jim reaches one hand back to clutch Spock’s hip, the other propping himself up for leverage. The massage felt wonderful, but this is _rapturous._ Spock squeezes him, humps him like an animal and mouths at his throat and shoulders and cheek, until Jim finally manages to twist enough for Spock to lick the corner of Jim’s mouth. 

It’s difficult to kiss at this angle, but Spock only lingers for a few thrusts, then nips his way up to Jim’s ear, where he bites the round tip. Jim hisses and can’t help but wonder if Spock finds his ears as exotically enticing as Jim finds Spock’s—elegantly pointed as they are. He suddenly wishes he’d offered a massage first, so he could have free range of Spock’s body. 

This is just as good. It isn’t long before Jim’s as hard as Spock feels, and he ruts into the cushions in time with Spock’s thrusts, pushing back into Spock each time. Spock tugs at Jim’s ear and starts to move his hand across Jim’s chest, petting it, until his palm swipes over one of Jim’s nipples. Jim lets out a strangled cry, and Spock immediately latches onto it, thumb and index finger clamping around his hardened nub. Spock twists it to just short of painful, then settles for rolling it around, and Jim writhes all the harder, squeezing Spock’s hip in return. Spock finishes with Jim’s ear to bite down his jaw line, and Jim’s breathing too hard to concentrate but still tries to twist to meet him. Their kisses are messy, strained, but Spock carries them on even when Jim can’t reign in his neck anymore. He surrenders to Spock’s touches—Spock humping his ass, playing with his nipples, and mouthing at his face. He wants to push down both their pants and order Spock to get inside him, _fuck him already_ , but there’s no time or coherency. 

Jim nears the edge from this alone. It’s overwhelming, the rush of sensations, the heat of it, the crushing weight of Spock’s perfect body. Foggy headed, Jim licks his spit-slicked lips and tries to gasp, “Spock, I—” But it’s too late, and he breaks off in a cry, balls tightening and hips jerking wildly—he comes right in his pants, burrowing into the couch. 

Spock humps him right through it, bites him all the harder and continues to feel him up, while Jim pants and whines his release and makes his underwear stick to him. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to be ashamed. He’s barely finished when Spock’s face buries in his shoulder, and he can feel Spock’s muffled roar against his skin. He can feel the wet patch in Spock’s pants as Spock follows, Spock’s hips stuttering to grind it in. When Spock’s finished, he collapses, heavy and panting just as hard as Jim, face still pressed tight to Jim. Jim can feel the searing heat of Spock’s cheeks—a colossal blush. 

Jim groans, “You’re fucking awesome,” just to make it clear that he one hundred percent condones massages with happy endings. Spock mutters something in response that Jim doesn’t catch and tries to move. 

Jim doesn’t let him go far. He guides Spock off him, and he rolls onto his side to make room—the two of them can just barely fit like this, Jim tucked against the back of the couch and Spock balanced near the edge. Spock looks at Jim with half-lidded, dilated eyes, cheeks green and mouth wet. He looks _amazing_.

Jim cups his cheek and presses a kiss to his lips, murmuring approvingly against them, “You’re the best husband ever.”

Spock’s eyes glitter with the praise, but he looks too wrecked to have any other answer. Then Jim starts gently nudging him around, and Spock, looking confused, obeys. 

It gives Jim access to Spock’s back. With a bit of effort, Jim rolls up Spock’s shirt, takes a moment to admire Spock’s bare skin, and then sets to gently rubbing it. He’s not as good as Spock, though he’s probably had more practice. He’s dead tired. He feels dizzy from the orgasm and has no intention of moving for a good while. 

He lazily strokes Spock’s back until he falls asleep without meaning to, the alien sun far set beyond the sea.


	7. Valley

In the absence of motorized vehicles, they decide to walk as far as they can in one day. It requires packing provisions into one of their bags, which they adjust the straps on for a more ergonomic backpack. As Jim’s slinging it over his shoulder, Spock suggests, “Vulcans are known to have superior physical strength; therefore, I should carry it.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Jim throws back, “I’m known to be the superior officer; therefore, I should carry the burden.”

Spock stares at him challengingly, then, when Jim doesn’t give in, says more quietly, “Please, Jim.”

Jim assumes that Spock would never use such tactics once they’re aboard their ship in front of other crewmembers, but it still hits Jim how much vulnerability he’s gained in Spock. To anyone else, he’d repeat his orders, and to Spock aboard the Enterprise, he’ll hopefully learn to.

To Spock in their vacation home on the doorstep of their marriage, Jim begrudgingly passes the backpack over. Spock takes it easily and adjusts the straps around his arms, standing just as ramrod straight as he was without the extra weight, and Jim can’t help but wonder if Spock went for a low, emotional tactic on purpose. Maybe he’s less rigid and cleverer than Jim gave him credit for. 

He passes Jim the tricorder like a consolation prize: a much smaller and lighter package. Jim strings it over himself and heads out. 

Jim’s still in casual clothes—jeans, button-up shirt, and sneakers—but Spock looks every bit a Starfleet commander in his full inform, impeccable from top to bottom. The idea of looking for a restaurant to share a romantic meal at is long gone. They’re all business as they make their way to town—it being the only main path—and then Jim has to decide which of several branching sidewalks they should take. He opts for the uphill one, even though it’s not pleasant to spend hours walking uphill under the blaring sun, even with the ocean breeze that wafts gently through the town. In theory, high ground will help them—they can look around, and maybe Spock’s Vulcan sight will pick up a stray survivor or two. Each time the pavement turns, Jim chooses the higher one, and they make their way in silence up a peaceful, grass hill, that soon starts to feel something like a mountain.

There are mountains back along the mainland, Jim thinks, but not high enough to be seen over the trees of their estate, and it’s slow going, the path weaving between a building here and there and many elaborate gardens, the foliage all lush and thick. They hear the occasional, tiny twittering of animals, but nothing larger than a palm-sized bird. For the most part, they’re silent, listening for nonexistent clues, and besides, Jim needs his breath for climbing.

Twice, they come to dead ends—one at the back of what looks like a ball factory, and one into a waist-high hedge maze. Both times, there isn’t a good enough view or any tricorder readings to justify stopping, so they backtrack and find a different way. Once, Jim’s foot catches on a rock and he goes stumbling backwards, downhill. Spock catches him.

* * *

By midday, Jim’s too tired and overheated to continue, but when he finally suggests they take a break, Spock checks the tricorder at Jim’s waist, fiddles with the knobs for a moment, and then declares, “Just a little further.” With an irritated sigh, Jim agrees.

Within five minutes, he finds out why. They reach another dead end, the path circling around to face out down the hillside, ending in a tiled semi-circle boasting two stone benches and low, potted ferns. The plants below the ledge are strategically trimmed, and for the first time, they have a truly unobstructed view. They can see all the way down to the town, all white patches on green, and to the curve of the coastline, lined with spread out homes. As far as Jim can tell, the commercial area is more inland, most of the residential structures right along the water. 

They stare down for a while, and Spock takes a recording on the tricorder. He’s still doing that when Jim ponders aloud, “The hills leading to the mainland are higher than I thought—it would’ve been difficult for large numbers to leave this way overnight. Maybe they all took boats.” Spock looks up from the tricorder, likely considering it. Jim can spot a few colourful blotches on the water, tethered to wharfs, that he assumes are boats, but there’re probably a grand total of six around the entire island—it strikes him as an exceedingly small count for a coastline city. He can’t remember if he saw any outside on his first day or if boats were mentioned in the reports. Considering the Mrennenimians don’t seem to have cars, boats feel like they should be a must. 

“It is a possibility,” Spock admits, though neither of them mention that they can’t see any islands on the horizon—from here on out, it’s just ocean.

They could probably scale the hillside and go looking in the mainland. But Jim has no idea where the next city is, and they certainly didn’t pack for it today. They waited too long—the Enterprise will be back in two days anyway, and there doesn’t seem to be any point potentially losing themselves in an alien wilderness with full ship’s sensors available in the near future. 

So he decides aloud, “We’ll take a break here, then head back. Even if we stop for a bit more investigating, we should make it back by dark.

Spock says, “Very well, Captain,” and shrugs the backpack off his shoulders.

* * *

It isn’t a true _picnic_ without a blanket and basket, but it’s close enough to appease Jim’s romantic side. He and Spock share a bench overlooking the city, enough space at the edge of their veranda left so it doesn’t feel like they’re going to fall. They have one water bottle each, one container of miscellaneous fruit, and one contain of wafers vaguely reminiscent of bread. These Jim eats in silence, consciously tying to spill as little crumbs as possible while Spock’s eating so cleanly beside him. Jim predictably finishes his half of the wafers first, and he moves on to the fruit.

There’s something like a strawberry without the stem, more purple than red, but it tastes good enough, and Spock seems to like them. Jim pops the first into his mouth and holds the second up to Spock’s mouth, following tradition. There’s no longer any hesitancy in Spock. He leans over to pluck the first bite straight from Jim’s fingers, staying close by while he chews. The second bite takes care of the rest, but it squeezes saccharine juice down the groove of Jim’s thumb, clear and shimmering in the late sun. Spock finishes his piece before he returns to lick that juice away. Jim doesn’t make any comments about how very un-Vulcan it is. 

Jim would feed Spock for the entire meal, but Spock reaches for the container before Jim can take another. Spock lifts a similar berry to Jim’s lips, and Jim, grinning, follows suit. He keeps his eyes on Spock’s the whole time, the connection between them palpable, the food just a prop. Jim’s more oral than he needs to be—he purposely bites too hard to spill an excess of juice, and he laps it away from each of Spock’s fingers, dipping along their sides and pressing into the grooves between, only to lift back up and descend on the index and middle finger that Spock presses together—Jim takes them whole into his mouth, closes around them and suckles on them, tongue ever at work. He sucks away unto Spock lets out a small, half-stifled moan that stirs Jim’s crotch. Jim lightly scrapes his teeth along Spock’s skin as he pulls off again.

He retrieves a new berry to hold precariously in his mouth, but it takes a lifted brow and a challenging smirk around it to give Spock the message. Breathing harder than usual, he glances from Jim’s eyes to Jim’s stretched-wide lips, and he parts his own, wetting them with one long, pink tongue that Jim’s grown very fond of staring at.

Spock slides one hand along Jim’s cheek before the rest of him moves. He softly cups Jim’s face, fingertips lightly interspersed in his hair, and tilts in. The distance between them narrows out, until Spock’s nose is pressing right against the side of Jim’s, his bow lips closing in on Jim’s, his shadow enveloping Jim’s inflamed body. The sun is nothing to the warmth of Spock’s body and the surge of his own adrenaline, his own arousal. Spock’s teeth bite into the alien strawberry, and Jim wants to push past it to _devour him_ , knock him right off the bench and fuck him against the hard stone, maybe tug him back to the privacy of foliage and take him right there in the grass. The only thing that holds him back is the fear of heatstroke and the want to take Spock _properly_ the first time, back in _their bed_ , with soft sheets and safety and a place to sleep after they run each other ragged.

Even as Spock bites away his piece, their faces stay too close, back to eating but still _touching_ , eyes more than halfway closed and going on the other senses. Their thighs are pressing into one another, hip to knee. Jim reaches one arm behind Spock’s back, gripping the bench on the other side, and it gives him more leverage when he leans in to lick all the liquid sugar off Spock’s lips. It devolves right into kissing within three seconds. 

One kiss turns into two and three, first his tongue in Spock’s mouth and then Spock’s tongue in his, shifting but never parting, opening and closing and tilting for different angles. Jim wants to explore Spock’s mouth, map it properly, and traces teeth, tongue, walls, but then he forgets and is just _tasting_ , meeting Spock back in a slow dance, tongues sometimes fighting for dominance but mostly working together, sliding easily along one another. Through Spock’s hand on his face, he can feel _everything_. The rush of affection takes him over, so thorough into every cell of his body that he can’t be sure which parts are his and which parts are Spock’s—it’s a mutual _wanting_. They fit so well together that there aren’t any seams. For one bizarre, dizzying moment, Jim’s foggy head jumps back to the first time he sat in the captain’s chair: the only other time he’s been this joyously content with his life.

Spock’s the first to part them, but he doesn’t go far. He presses his forehead against Jim’s, breath ghosting over Jim’s open mouth, and he finds another fruit with his spare hand to trace over Jim’s bottom lip. Jim takes a bite, then Spock, and he takes hold of the next one. 

They go through the entire container like that, feeding one another and kissing between, sometimes pausing for seconds, sometimes minutes, hands taking other places here and there but their bodies always close. By the time the container’s empty, Jim feels like he’s on a sugar-high, giddy with butterflies. It’s so hard to part them.

But he does, because they wasted all their extra exploration time making out like horny teenagers, and now there’s nothing left for ravaging each other halfway up a mountain. He thinks it would be marvelous to take Spock under the stars, but that will have to wait for another planet. It isn’t safe here. 

Someday, Spock will be Jim’s second, and there will come a time when Jim will have to send him down to a known hazard, while Jim’s chained to the captain’s chair and Spock faces alien danger alone. But that’s a pain to tackle another day, and for now, he has a love nest for them that’s so far proved mystery-problem-impenetrable.

Nuzzling into Spock’s neck because he’s enjoying their closeness too much to stop, he mutters, “We should head back.”

Spock nods, and Jim kisses under his jaw, mouthing lightly down his neck. Spock’s breath is light, fluttering, but he sucks in a shaky whine and agrees, “Yes... that would be wise.”

It still takes them five minutes to detangle. Spock still insists on carrying the backpack, even though it’s lighter for the depletion of their food. Before they leave, Jim gives Spock one firm, iconic kiss on the lips, silhouetted by the view of an empty world. Spock wraps two fingers around Jim’s and uses that to tug Jim lightly away. It feels like they should roll down the hill in one childishly blissful, tightly locked heap, until they reach the bottom in a mess of melded bodies. 

They walk instead, sending subtle sparks between their hands.

* * *

It’s dark by the time they get back, late enough to sleep, and Jim’s exhausted. But Spock heads for the living room instead of the bedroom, and at the edge of the chessboard, he asks, “May we play one game?”

Jim sighs. He stretches out his arms and fights back a yawn, while Spock stands perfectly still and collected, showing all the superior strength of his species. Jim’s certain that if he says no, the discussion will be over immediately—Spock seems to regard him as a captain no matter what Jim says. Why he wants to play chess, Jim only thinks over for a moment—perhaps he’s frustrated with their lack of findings and wants a competition for an outlet, or perhaps the walk’s given him energy instead of tiredness, or perhaps he simply wants an excuse to spend more time awake with Jim. Before Jim can think to ask, he says, “On one condition.”

Spock lifts a brow and patiently awaits an explanation.

Jim, fully expecting Spock to refuse, says, “We play for stakes.”

“Stakes?” Spock repeats blankly, before confusion crosses his face. “Gamboling is not encouraged in Starfleet officers.”

“Not for money,” Jim snorts. Spock tilts his head, and Jim steps closer, trying not to grin too lecherously as he suggests, “For a kiss.”

Spock answers simply, “It seems as though we do not need such wagers to do so.”

“Then a kiss somewhere we wouldn’t normally give one,” Jim elaborates, unable to resist a wink. Spock looks utterly unaffected by it.

But Spock still agrees, “Very well,” and turns easily back to the board. He takes the chair they’ve long since pulled up to the coffee table for just these occasions. 

Jim’s left to walk around the side to the couch, where he sprawls out more for fatigue than show. He doesn’t have the energy to be enticing enough to garner a kiss, so he figures he’ll win one.

He invites, “You first,” and Spock obediently slides a pawn forward. 

Jim casually returns the gesture. Spock moves his horse.

Jim sits up straighter and moves another pawn. 

And soon he isn’t playing casually but genuinely _trying_ , because it quickly becomes clear that Spock is taking the game even more seriously than usual.

Under normal circumstances, Jim would play slower, more thoughtfully, with such a want to win, but with Spock, he deliberately plays faster—he can’t beat Spock with cold logic, so he aims, in the times he most wants to succeed, to be the opposite. He plays sanely one minute, recklessly the next, and Spock’s pauses become longer and longer between moves, his eyebrows cutely knitting together in concentration as he stares unabashedly at the board, clearly trying to unravel Jim’s strategy. At times, Jim doesn’t have one. He flies by the seat of his pants and takes risks, though his mind works overtime as much as Spock’s, trying to pinpoint Spock’s plans. The difference between them is that Jim can see three moves ahead and ignores the defense for it in favour of his own offense, while Spock aims for a more well-rounded approach. Jim loses almost twice as many pieces as Spock. 

But Spock’s massive off-board army can’t protect him from Jim’s abrupt checkmate, and Spock stares at the board a full two minutes before he knocks his own king down. 

Then he looks over at Jim, who’s now an odd mix of exhausted and exhilarated. Games against Spock tend to get his blood pumping. And staring at Spock in between moves does nothing to stop that. 

Because Jim already got what he wanted—Spock’s respect, and the knowledge that Spock will come back to his bed after—he says, “You don’t have to follow through if you don’t want; I forfeit my prize.” He _wants_ it, of course, but he doesn’t want an uncomfortable Vulcan. He already got a power rush just from the idea. 

Spock contemplates Jim levelly, then asks in a carefully neutral voice, “Where would you like your kiss?”

Grinning broadly, Jim says, “Surprise me.”

Spock takes another minute, likely thinking, his eyes never leaving Jim’s. He should know Jim’s body by now. When he rises out of his chair, that gaze doesn’t waver. Jim doesn’t drop it. He watches Spock walk around their coffee table, and then, to his mingled surprise and delight, Spock sinks to his knees. 

Jim _knows_ Spock isn’t going to kiss his crotch, but the mere possibility is enough to heat him up. Spock places his hands lightly on Jim’s thighs, down near the knee, and leans across Jim’s lap to press a chaste but lingering kiss to Jim’s left breast. It takes a few seconds for Jim to figure out why: that’s where the human heart lies. 

When Spock slowly retreats, Jim reaches to cup Spock’s face on either side, running back into his silken hair, and tilts him up. Spock parts his lips before Jim even gets there, leaning down to bring them together. 

The kiss is warm, soft, and gradual, partly from Jim’s tiredness and partly from the mood of it. He _feels_ Spock in his hands, lightly thumbs Spock’s cheeks and breathes Spock in. The kiss is long, tender. Jim’s the first to break it, but Spock lifts up on his knees to reconnect them, hands sliding further down Jim’s thighs.

It’s probably not on purpose, but it still makes Jim groan into Spock’s mouth. Spock hesitates, then tentatively squeezes, thumbs pressing into Jim’s inner thighs, and Jim’s breath hitches, his tongue thrusting deeper into Spock. Spock licks him back, lightly sucks on his tongue, and carefully starts to rise, though his mouth and hands don’t leave Jim’s body. 

With a bit of pausing and rearranging, Spock takes a seat next to Jim on the couch, as close as possible, one hand slithering away to slide behind Jim’s back and the other staying along Jim’s leg. Jim turns his body into Spock as much as he can without tossing his legs right over Spock’s lap. He doesn’t want to move them, doesn’t want to dislodge Spock’s hand. He wants to buck up into it. But he restrains himself in the interest of not startling his emotionally guarded fiancé, and he settles for a slew of kisses that turn steadily more passionate with each passing second. 

Soon, they’re ravenous, and just when Jim’s about to break it and suggest they go to the bedroom, Spock’s hand shifts to cup between Jim’s legs. Jim lets out a startled moan, ragged, unable to stop himself from thrusting into it. Spock, to his delight, presses back. He didn’t even think Vulcans gave hand jobs. But Spock’s not like any other Vulcan he’s met.

Spock’s _delicious_ , and Jim redoubles his efforts at claiming Spock’s mouth while Spock starts to massage the growing bulge in his pants. When Spock’s mouth tries to leave, Jim follows it, but Spock turns away so much that Jim can only nip at his cheek. Sounding just as hoarse as Jim feels, Spock mutters, “ _Jim_ , please, if I overstep—”

Jim doesn’t think he’s coherent enough to explain how _right this is_ , so he drops one hand over Spock’s. It seems to communicate the right message. He presses Spock’s hand harder against himself and grinds into it, fully aware he’s probably going to come in his pants. He can feel the bond between them, their intangible cloud of _connection_ , spike with hunger. Spock returns to kiss him harder, Jim right there to meet it. 

There are little snippets of thought that still flutter into him: how _beautiful_ Spock is, how _amazing_ he feels, how warm and fitting and _breathtaking_ Spock’s become to him, but he can’t think straight beyond them. He reaches around to stroke the back of Spock’s head and holds Spock against him and devours Spock’s mouth, sensing Spock’s feelings all along the same lines. 

It’s very belatedly that he realizes how unfair he’s being, and the prompt to that thought isn’t any sense of Spock’s lack of pleasure, but his own want to feel _Spock_ in his hand. Trying to hold himself back from the finish line, he slides from Spock’s cheek down Spock’s body, pausing once to squeeze Spock’s chest, under Spock’s blue tunic and along the hem of his Starfleet pants. It takes Jim less than a second to pop them open and reach inside. 

He probes into Spock through their bond, trying to be absolutely sure that he isn’t crossing any line, but Spock meets him with a wave of ardor, hips stuttering right up into his hand. Jim slips inside, wraps five eager fingers around a pulsing shaft, and pulls it out to pump in his hand. He tries to stop kissing Spock long enough to look, but when he turns his head, Spock continues kissing the side of his face, and Jim can’t stay away long. He eyes the thick cock throbbing between his fingers, not so different than a human’s, but yellowish with lines of green veins and a purpling head that already sports a bead of precum peeking through the foreskin. If Jim had the wherewithal, he’d drop to his knees and worship it properly.

But he can barely hold himself together. So he returns to kissing Spock fiercely and pumping Spock’s dick while Spock palms him through his pants, only to fiddle with his own fly and slip inside a moment later. Spock doesn’t pull him out but pets him beneath the fabric, and Jim groans and keeps bucking into it. Spock’s hips don’t piston up, but they’re trembling, and Spock’s dick practically vibrates in his hand. Jim feels so lucky. _So lucky_. When he thinks of having _this_ on his starship, _Spock_ for the rest of his life, he can barely stand it. He’s so grateful. Spock tastes so good. Jim can barely breathe, it’s _so perfect_.

And it’s through with him before he’s ready, clenching his stomach and tightening his balls, and Jim comes in Spock’s hand with a loud cry, though Spock kisses his open mouth right through it. He spills all over Spock’s fingers and his own pants, brain thinned out to nothing. He’s overcome with _pleasure_ , pure and abstract and enough to drown in. He shudders in Spock’s arms, overcome. 

He doesn’t come down right away, and he acts before he can. Pleasure-dulled and boneless, he pushes right out of Spock’s grasp and slips to the floor. 

He’s between Spock’s legs a second later, pushing them apart, and Spock stares down at him with dilated, half-lidded eyes and flushed cheeks and slightly sweat-slicked hair, probably more from the heat of _them_ than the walk and muggy air. Jim returns his grip to Spock’s shaft, and he holds it up while he bends over it, mouth opening. Spock’s girth warrants unhinging his jaw as much as he can. He flicks his tongue over the top, drinks in Spock’s gasp, and dives onto the head. 

He’s too dizzy to deep-throat right now, but he’s sure he will sometime, even though Spock will take _a lot_ of his throat. He closes his lips around it, careful with his teeth, _sucks_ for all he’s worth and starts sliding down to meet his hand. Spock’s hips buck up to meet him, but Jim hurriedly shoves a hand against Spock’s stomach, holding him still while Jim sets to bobbing up and down on the top third of Spock’s dick. He finds the taste better than he remembered and doesn’t know if it’s because he’s still in the mood or because Vulcan cock genuinely tastes better than human cock, but it doesn’t matter right now because this is the only cock he’ll need for the rest of his life. He has no problem with that. He sucks away and licks at it with his tongue and pumps his hand over the base, the parts he can’t reach with his mouth. Spock’s broken noises overhead are nowhere near the usual emotionless veneer, and Jim savours every one. 

Jim only has to suck Spock’s cock for a short while before it’s over—he still hasn’t completely recovered from his orgasm, and Spock comes with a sudden moan, drawn out and filthy. His hands land abruptly on Jim’s head, fingers running back into his hair and fisting there, holding Jim on while he quickly schools his gag reflex down. He lets Spock’s seed well up in his mouth and swallows, savouring the strangely sweet taste. That first lick makes him want _more_ , and he gets his wish; Spock comes an absurd amount, one hot wave after another, and Jim drinks every bit.

It isn’t until he’s absolutely sure he’s got it all that he finally pulls away, mouth leaving with a slick squelching sound. Spock’s shaft falls limply back against his pants, and Jim slumps against Spock’s leg, feeling lightheaded in multiple ways.

After a few minutes of them both panting profusely and Jim just basking in the afterglow, Spock says, “...That was not sanitary.”

Jim snorts and looks up, a stray chuckle twisting his lips. A yawn catches him a moment later, and around it’s end, he says, “Sorry?”

If possible, Spock’s cheeks turn even greener. He moves forward as though he’s going to join Jim on the floor, but Jim forces himself to stand first. 

He takes Spock’s hand again, and they wander off to the master suite, the bathroom to clean up, the blankets to slip under, and each other’s arms to snuggle into.


	8. Chocolate

Jim gets the distinct impression that Spock is always an early riser, one to get out of bed and immediately to work, and neither a ‘morning’ person nor ‘not’ so—because to Spock, the morning simply _is_ and his mood doesn’t adapt for it. Jim doesn’t bother to ask Spock to confirm it, because he can already picture the entire conversation in his head, and instead of repeating that aloud, Jim grabs at Spock’s wrist as Spock climbs off the mattress.

Jim misses. His aim is usually impeccable, but not when he’s still half asleep and the target is moving. He allows himself an irritated wrinkle of his nose but doesn’t bother to follow. Instead, he lies on his stomach with his face partially obscured by the pillow and his latent dream threatening to take over again, while Spock wanders into the adjacent bathroom. Jim can hear the tap turn on, water running, and then he stops paying attention in favour of debating whether to get up or not—maybe he can join Spock in the shower if he’s quick enough. 

He’s probably not quick enough. The tired part of him, the part that’s been aboard a busy starship too long and wants to enjoy a chance to sleep in, decides that there’ll be plenty of time for that in the rest of their lives. They’ll spend hundreds of mornings together. Thousands. He’ll get Spock in the shower all the time, so he might as well rest while he can and enjoy sleep while his dreams are still good—he was experiencing one of his missions again, except instead of Nurse Chapel’s ex building android humans, he was building android puppies, and Jim was in the middle of a game of hide-and-go-seek with Chapel and the puppies, hidden around a cave wall with a penis-shaped rock in his hands for some reason, when the shift of Spock leaving the bed woke him up.

There actually was a penis-shaped rock. He remembers that mission and its difficulty, hazily feeling proud of himself for somehow making it out alright, and he wonders if it would’ve been easier with Spock for a first officer. Probably. He’s rash sometimes, he knows that. Bones has told him enough. Maybe it’ll be good to have a logical right hand adding another point of view to the mix.

He’s wasted all his time thinking and none dreaming when Spock comes out of the washroom again. He walks around to his side of the bed, picks up the covers, and slips right back under them. He doesn’t look wet and wasn’t gone long, so probably didn’t shower. Maybe he’s waiting for Jim. Jim rolls around to face him, the handsome view forcing him to be more awake and aware than he wanted. Spock doesn’t look prepared to fall back to sleep.

He says quietly, levelly, “The USS Enterprise is scheduled to arrive tomorrow.”

Jim tries to say ‘yes’ but instead winds up yawning.

Spock continues in the same hushed voice, “It is unlikely that we will resolve the Mrennenimian absence before then.”

Jim frowns, and it takes him a moment to place what bothers him about the resignation in Spock’s tone—it’s a little too much like the acceptance of _failure_.

But Jim knows it too. It’s uncomfortably apparent that they’re unequipped for this problem. They have half a dozen unconnected clues and not even one plausible theory. The most depressing part is that by the time the Enterprise arrives, it might be too late to reverse the situation. If it ever could’ve been reversed at all.

As though sensing Jim’s defeat and trying to stopper it, Spock suggests, “With the aide of a starship’s instrumentation and crew, it is far more likely we will gain answers.”

Jim says, almost on instinct, “I have the best crew in the fleet.” 

Spock lifts a brow. Pike’s crew was probably exemplary, but Spock doesn’t challenge Jim’s claim. 

Jim adds, “And it’s about to become even better, so at least the trip was still worth it.”

The corner of Spock’s mouth twitches like he’s about to give in to a smile, but he quickly catches it. Jim still grins broadly, and Spock counters in a mostly neutral voice, “I concur.” Jim gives into the urge to kiss him, squirming across the small distance between them.

The blankets get a little tangled up in the process, Jim toppling from his own pillow to Spock’s, but Spock waits patiently for him, mouth obediently opening. Spock tastes vaguely of lavender, probably from toothpaste. It occurs to Jim belatedly that he hasn’t brushed his own teeth and probably has morning breath, so when he finishes enjoying Spock’s lips, he pulls back a fraction and nuzzles his nose against Spock’s instead. Spock seems to find this gesture just as pleasing, because he nuzzles right back, hand reaching under the blanket to catch Jim’s bicep. Two fingers slide up and under the short sleeve of the t-shirt Jim’s using for pajamas. As the familiar warmth of their touch seeps into him, Jim explores on his own. He feels his way to Spock’s chest, smoothing over it, wanting _skin on skin_ , and instead mumbles, “Where’s the Vulcan heart?”

Spock’s hand withdraws. It finds Jim’s arm and runs down, to clasp over Jim’s fingers and guide them lower. Spock presses Jim’s palm into his side, and Jim holds tight. He can feel Spock’s pulse right through the fabric. 

He diverts from Spock’s cute nose to kiss Spock’s cheek, then Spock’s chin. Then he shuffles down to peck under Spock’s jaw, tilting Spock aside to gently mouth at his neck, and Jim makes his way down Spock’s side—shoulder, chest, and he has to push the blankets back and roll Spock’s pajama shirt up, and then he places a kiss over the place Spock showed him. He knows he got it right. He can feel Spock beating beneath his lips, hear Spock’s breath flutter when he makes content, taste the slightly salty, smooth surface of Spock’s skin. He winds up lingering longer than he means to. His kiss becomes wide, open-mouthed, wet and almost with suction. When he pulls back, Spock’s skin has flushed green where he left. 

After a minute of unabashed staring, he returns to kiss Spock’s cheek again and share Spock’s pillow. Nose-to-nose, he asks, “Now, should we share a shower or a swim?”

* * *

They eat a little bit first, the usual fare, Spock with his fork and Jim with his hands, diverting things sometimes to his own mouth and sometimes to Spock’s. There are definitely some heartier meals he misses, but overall, he thinks it’ll be difficult to transition back to Synthesized proteins after all these _real_ , homegrown things.

Spock likely won’t notice a different, or will and won’t say it, and either way, it’ll give Jim something to tease about. Spock’s full of tease-worthy things, but Jim’s still too full of affection to go full throttle with it. Bones will probably have a field day. Spock, at times, can talk like a particularly cute computer, and Bones never gives technology an easy time. 

But Bones expresses his friendship with Jim via teasing, so maybe it’ll be a good sign when he inevitably does the same to Spock. Jim imagines the rest of his crew will like Spock—Uhura will enjoy the logical break from Jim’s nonsense and Bones’ grumbling, Scotty will appreciate someone with a mind brilliant enough to understand his precious ship, Sulu will respect a competent commander and Chekov will look up to another genius. If any of them _don’t_ like him, for whatever unimaginable reason, their tune will likely change when they see how happy he makes their captain.

Spock doesn’t seem to have much interest in his former crew, although he always speaks of Pike with respect when the name comes up. They chat idly while they push fruits and crackers around their plates, and then they clean up their sizeable kitchen, and Jim notes, “Even the captain doesn’t have a kitchen like this.”

“I am sure the Enterprise’s mess hall is appropriately sized and equipped,” Spock counters, to which Jim nods. The only difference is when they eat there, Jim won’t have Spock to himself, and feeding each other won’t be an option.

But they’ll be married, then—Starfleet will see to that. So they’ll have all their time off shift in their quarters together. Jim can settle for that. He heads out to the patio in the same shirt and boxers he slept in, Spock following in swim trunks he changed into and a long-sleeved shirt he strips off to hang over a chair. 

It’s a beautiful day, like they all seem to be. Hot and clear-skied. Jim lets his own shirt join Spock’s, and the two of them walk down to the water.

“We should stay close to land,” Spock reminds him, though Jim wouldn’t dare take Spock deeper out with their mystery danger somewhere around. 

He still points out, “In this clear water, we’ll be able to see anything coming leagues away.”

“Nevertheless, I would recommend we not go more than a meter deep.”

Jim agrees, “Fine,” and doesn’t bother to ask how Spock arrived at the measurement.

By the time they run out of dry sand, they’re not alone. A gaggle of giant fish are meandering slowly by the shore, their bright fins occasionally sticking out of the water. They look strikingly similar to reef sharks, except that their scales boast a kaleidoscope of colours, pink being the most predominant, splashed with blues and greens and slivers of bright yellow. It’s the first time Jim’s seen them, though he remembers Spock’s initial report—they should be harmless, sporting no teeth.

Spock slows by the water’s edge, looking as though he wants a tricorder in his hands, but Jim steps right up to one. It continues its swirled path right around his legs, paying him no attention. They look as if they’re stopping to feed, like cows grazing, though what they’re eating, Jim could only guess. 

He doesn’t bother. He extends a hand to Spock, and Spock’s gaze lifts from the not-sharks to take it. He lets Jim pull him a step into the water, and the two of them walk carefully around the fish swarm. With both of them there and the movement, Jim expects the creatures to dissipate, but they don’t seem to notice.

“They must not be fished by the locals,” Spock notes, although Jim thinks it just as likely that they’re simply not intelligent enough to equate humanoids with fishing. They have eyes, but little beady ones without any whites—just black pupils. They’re sort of attractive, in a way. They’d probably make for a beautiful painting. 

Jim would still rather they be ugly and capable of speech so he could ask them what’s going on with their world. Instead, he settles for wading amongst them, enjoying the relatively cool lap of the water along his warm skin. 

He’d meant to go for a swim, but Spock doesn’t seem keen on going far enough out for it, and the concerns are all valid. So Jim takes a seat amidst the fish, the water level increased to the top of his chest and biceps. Spock soon joins him. They sit side-by-side, half under the water, while the alien creatures swim idly about them like a living, protective force field, or a less-helpful starship crew monitoring invisible stations. The very thought of that, so purely ridiculous, proves to Jim that he’s been planet-side too long. He’s getting so starship-sick that he’s personifying fish. 

“These look similar to a species of aquatic life on Earth,” Jim notes, just to distract himself. 

“Yes. My initial report compared them to the Terran reef shark, if you recall,” Spock returns, and Jim snorts—he should’ve remembered that.

“Vulcan is mostly desert, right? Do you have fish?”

Spock pauses, at first perhaps to think, and then to lower his knees as one of the creatures passes over his lap. Its muzzle bumps into Jim’s legs, and he shivers at the cold, slick contact, then lowers his own legs to let it pass through. It wanders by in nowhere near a straight line, so that its fins swipe over Jim’s stomach. It vaguely tickles. 

When it’s passed, Spock answers, “Yes. The Voroth Sea, for example, has many aquatic species.” Jim nods, wondering if he’ll ever see it, and Spock continues, “However, it is true that Earth holds a larger variety, though with not nearly so many species as it once had.”

A sobering thought. Earth went through a lot of devastation before making it to where they are now, and all Jim can do is quietly say, “Yeah.” 

“Many species of whales, for instance, have gone extinct. As the largest Terran whales outmatched any creature of Vulcan, I would have been interested in seeing them.”

Looking sideways with a faint smile, Jim asks, “You’d like to look at whales? Have you seen any?”

“I have seen a beluga.” Just one beluga. How Spock managed that without eyeing any other kinds, Jim can only wonder—did he make the mistake of diving right into the ocean instead of just getting an aquarium ticket?

“You should see orcas. They’re the best kind.”

Spock tilts his head, eyebrows knitting together, and he asks, “How do you judge the merit of marine species?”

“They look the coolest.” Before Spock can jump in about either the irrelevance of temperature or the shallowness of the statement, Jim adds with a cheeky grin, “And looks are, after all, how I first knew you’d work out.”

In an impressively dry tone, Spock retorts, “That is an illogical comparison, as I assume you do not plan on pursuing an intimate relationship with an orca.”

Jim _laughs_. It’s loud enough to startle some of the fish away, and Spock looks _almost_ pleased with himself. It’s good that he’s capable of humour, even if he hides it behind the usual neutrality. At least he might be able to keep up with Bones. 

Tossing one wet arm around Spock’s bare shoulders, Jim promises, “I’ll take you to an aquarium on our next Earth shore leave, Commander. Then you can swim with all the whales you like.”

For all his rigid projections, Spock feels relaxed in Jim’s grip. His side is warm and soft against Jim’s, their wet skin touching everywhere, the sun slipping around all Spock’s contours and glistening off his hair to make him shine. He tells Jim simply, “Thank you, Captain.”

One of the fishes chooses that moment to ram into Spock’s stomach. He reacts no more than a lifted eyebrow, staring down at it. Jim follows suit and tries to stifle his laughter as the stubborn creature keeps trying to pass right through where Spock is, only nudging forward and propelling back again each time. Finally, Jim takes pity on the poor thing and wraps his hands around its sides, careful of all the many fins. He turns it around so it’s facing past Spock’s side, and when Jim lets go, it swims away in that direction like nothing happened. If they were a starship crew, Jim would demote that one to yeoman and make sure it was never promoted to helmsman or navigator. He sighs, “Even if everyone else is gone, at least the fish are happy.

* * *

They spend the rest of the day inside, playing chess and devising meals and considering sitting in the ball pit—or at least, Jim does, though he’s equal parts interested to try it and creeped out from the snakeskin in the other ones. By the time the sun starts to set, just after dinner, they’re back out on the veranda, stretched along wicker lounge chairs with white padding. Next to one another, they both hold PADDs. This wasn’t an official mission, but given the circumstances, Jim still feels the need to write up a report for Starfleet. Spock seems to feel the same. 

It’s a surprisingly difficult report to write for how little information they have, because he tries to leave out the parts where he and Spock were late to clues because of being lost in one another. He tells himself Starfleet can hardly judge him for that—they’re the ones that sent him a gorgeous Vulcan and a week’s worth of bonding time. This is what they wanted. The fact that Mrennenimus Prime likely won’t be joining the Federation, or anything requiring live citizens, for that matter, is hardly Jim’s fault. 

He doesn’t ask what Spock’s writing simply because he wants to give the impression that he knows what he’s doing and doesn’t need help. Usually, he does. Usually, he’s not so... helpless.

Eventually, Spock announces, “I have finished compiling my official report.” Jim finishes a few sentences later. 

By then, Spock’s still on his PADD, probably writing up more, unnecessary reports, like catalogues of the marine life or a study in sphere art. Jim turns off his own PADD and keeps his tone light to make it clear Spock can decline and have the private time to think and work if he wants. “Are you interested in captaincy, someday?”

Most people are, so Jim usually gets a quick ‘yes,’ but Spock turns off his own PADD before answering, “Perhaps my career will unfold so, but at the moment, I believe I am well suited to the first officer position.”

“So I don’t need to worry about you usurping me, then. Good.”

It’s a joke, of course, but Spock still answers, “Even in the extremely unlikely event I were to do so, you would see my intentions through our bond before I could act upon it.”

Jim snorts. “Good to know. You can’t kill me off then, even if you meet someone else you want to marry.”

“I believe humans have a fairly simple divorce procedure,” Spock counters, though the flippancy of it tells Jim that he’s only saying it to keep up their verbal sparring mach—as of now, at least, Jim doesn’t anticipate any problems they couldn’t work out before divorce. 

“Klingons think assassination an easier process.”

“Klingons also think live worms an acceptable meal.”

If Jim knew that one, he’d forgotten it. It makes him wrinkle his nose just at the thought, though he imaginations such a dish would be even grosser to Spock, a vegetarian. Jim makes a mental note to ask Pike next time they talk if his crew ever had the misfortunate of trying a Klingon meal. 

Only because it’s _Spock_ and there’s no one else around to record his defeat, Jim admits, “You win.”

“As we have decided I will not be assassinating you under any circumstances, I believe you win, as well.”

Jim snorts, and it turns into a laugh, and he could swear Spock looks on the verge of a grin again. Clearly, Jim is no good for Spock’s cold Vulcan logic. They’ll probably need to keep their banter in check if they ever go home to meet Spock’s parents.

Maybe Spock’s considering that too, because he diverts the topic to something more serious. He doesn’t look back at Jim until Jim’s finished laughing. “Are you interested in advancement to admiralty?”

“Not in the slightest,” Jim answers easily. “I’m not meant to sit behind a desk. It’s captaincy for me, and I hope the Enterprise is where I serve the rest of that career.”

Spock nods. “I had estimated as much from what I have learned of your personality. I believe I would be... content... to remain your first officer aboard such a prestigious vessel.”

“More than just prestigious,” Jim warns. “We get our fair share of nonsense.”

“I subscribe to the Vulcan IDIC.”

“Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, if I remember right?”

“You remember correctly. It would be a great loss to the scientific community if the universe ceased to provide the unknown.”

Lips twisting up at the corners, Jim says, “I couldn’t agree more.” He really couldn’t. Exploring the unknown is precisely what called him to Starfleet in the first place. On a random thought, he decides, “Alright. First shore leave on Earth, we watch _Contact_ , visit an aquarium, and find a private place to feed each other finger foods again.” At Spock’s lifted brow, Jim elaborates, “A pre-contact Earth movie, one of my favourites. It deals with believing space has those unknowns.” And he thinks Spock would like it. “The aquarium is self explanatory. You deserve some whales.”

He thinks, by now, he has a surprisingly decent handle on what Spock likes. He feels like they should have more to talk about—not just their career goals, but their _life goals_ , what it’ll be like to live together and spend off-duty time together. But they’re both service men that seem to have little else, and in a sense, they already live together. Jim already knows Spock’s habits. Knows he’s clean, knows he’s organized, knows he prefers to utilize spare time first for work-related things, then self improvement such as exercise and proper meal preparation, then, if Jim provides the right mood, _fun_ , like chess and sex.

The swarm of fish had dissipated earlier, but one bright fin catches in the corner of Jim’s eye, lit up with the orange-purple glow of the setting sun. A few of them are back, altering the clear surface in a hazy cloud of warped reflections. Watching them, Spock suggests, “Perhaps one last swim before the Enterprise returns.” Jim’s already getting up.

* * *

There might still be time for the water if the Enterprise arrives later tomorrow, but they swim like it’s their last, never going far but deep enough to drift. They keep one eye on the fish, thinking the fish might sense trouble before them and flee like canaries in mines used to do under cruel, ancient Terran supervision. But the fish are peaceful, the water’s peaceful, and as much as Jim gets the tremendous urge to splash Spock and mess up his pristine hair, the two of them remain peaceful. They swim shallow laps parallel to the beach, which takes a considerable time as the fish keep getting in their way. They don’t give up until it’s too dark to see far enough away, and safety dictates they leave.

As usual, Spock rising from the water is a tempting sight. He walks beside Jim, rising from the surface with little rivulets still clinging to him, stray drops beaded everywhere. His blue swim trunks plaster themselves to his thighs. Even at the tail-end of the evening like this, the air’s still pleasantly warm, and so they walk easily and confidently, about halfway to the veranda, when Jim can’t take it anymore and reaches for Spock’s wrist.

Spock stops, turning, and Jim uses his grip to tug Spock closer. Spock stumbles at first, surprised, but catches himself impressively quickly, Starfleet training likely kicking in, so by the time his body’s pulled against Jim’s chest, he’s standing straight again. Jim diverts his hand from Spock’s wrist to Spock’s waist, securing them together all the tighter. Spock takes the hint—his face tilts, leaning forward, and Jim meets him halfway. 

The kiss is something particularly special. They always are. But this is the sort of moment Jim knows he’ll always remember. The stars are just starting to show, and the gleam of them off the water coupled with the glow from the house keeps the darkness enough at bay. There is no one source haloing them but an array of smaller slivers, the water still clinging to their bodies further splitting and reflecting those shimmers, so that Spock’s slicked skin becomes a mishmash of shadows and light. The only sound is the gentle lap of the water along the sand and the occasional flick of a fish’s fin, and of course, Jim’s breathing across Spock’s lips. Spock’s quieter. But he kisses just as strong, with his long fingers sliding easily into Jim’s hair. 

Every time Jim tries to stop, another comes. He wants to take Spock inside but can’t seem to make it, because that would require the use of other body parts, and all of him is so busy focusing on Spock’s mouth. When he finally gets signals across to the rest of himself, it’s no better; his arm tightens around Spock’s middle, hand idly stroking Spock’s side, the other first cupping Spock’s cheek, then sliding down his neck, across his collarbone. Jim forces himself to separate their bodies enough to run his hand down Spock’s chest. 

Somehow, Spock manages to stop them enough to murmur, “We will not have so much time as this again,” before closing in for another kiss. Another after that. Jim doesn’t answer—he knows. He _longs_ for his ship, but he also doesn’t want _this_ to end, even though the mystery’s killing him. Maybe they’ll do it all now. Even if they never get such a long break from service again, they have and will use this one to the fullest. Jim tugs on Spock’s bottom lip with his teeth and lets his knees buckle.

Spock follows him down. They’re too entwined not to. They keep kissing, even as Jim bends Spock backwards, looming over to press him into the sand—Spock acquiesces, his legs shifting out, and then he’s lying down properly. Jim kisses Spock’s lips, then his nose, then pulls back enough to lift on hands and knees. Hovering over Spock, Jim devours the view, Spock all splayed out for him. The sand, a gleaming yellow-white, was mostly dry but now damp around Spock’s edges, his weight indenting it. They’ll need a shower later. Maybe they’ll finally share one. When they’re sharing shifts aboard the Enterprise, there won’t be time for two. 

Jim must take too long eyeing up Spock’s waiting body, because Spock eventually lifts up on his elbows and reconnects their mouths. Jim kisses back and flattens Spock down again, this time letting them touch _everywhere_.

Jim’s shorts weren’t made for swimming, and they become translucent with the water, nearly paper-thin—when he drags his body down, he can feel _everything_. He grinds his crotch into Spock, and he can feel a bulge in Spock’s trunks pressing right back, clothes just as glued down. They might as well not be wearing anything. He rolls into Spock over and over, matching the rhythm of their mouths, until he feels something cool and light hit the middle of his back. 

He pauses, pulling back just a fraction, and another drop hits his shoulder. Spock’s eyes glance to the side. A bead of rain hits the sand beside them, leaving a tiny, dark circle in its wake. 

“I didn’t even know it could rain here,” Jim mutters.

Spock answers, “A rare occurrence, but a plausible one.”

It’s just a light sprinkle. Jim peers curiously over his shoulder, but the thin stretch of cloud that does fog the sky doesn’t look particularly threatening—certainly nothing portending of a storm. 

So he returns his attention to Spock. His first kiss draws Spock back to him. Then Spock’s hands return to his hair, his return to Spock’s body, and he grinds his hips down into Spock’s again, dragging the imprints of their cocks together. He can feel the stutter in Spock’s breath caught inside his mouth. He feels the same, shuddering here and there on contact, the ricochet of _pleasure_ coiling around the rest. One of Spock’s legs lifts around Jim’s side, knee clinging to his hip. Jim shoves one thigh between Spock’s. It makes it easier to rub them against one another, and it makes Spock moan, a delicious noise that Jim swallows up right away. 

They make out like that over and over, grinding and rubbing and _touching_ , Jim growing hard, and the rain increases with their fervor. It splatters the sand around them and covers Jim’s back, hair, slips down his sides and clings to his cheeks, his nose, pressed and falling right into Spock afterwards. Even the rain’s warm. Jim tries to ignore it. But it gets to a point where they might as well be in the water again, and it’s only getting worse. 

So Jim forces himself back up to his knees. He pulls Spock with him and goes in for another kiss. He struggles to his feet—another kiss. They run back to the veranda, leaving their shirts, pre-folded towels, and even thankfully waterproof PADDS, and going straight for the sliding glass door. They’re kissing again as Jim shuts it behind them, muffling the rain to a dull roar. They make quick puddles on the floor. But they’re still going, and now their hands are in play again, feet stumbling forward towards the master suite but the rest of them unable to focus. They’re never more than an arm’s length apart as they cross the living space, down the hall, bumping into the bedroom door and shoving it open. They’re right beside the bed when Jim thinks to stop.

He drops down to the side of the bed, reaches for one of the drawers along the base, and pauses suddenly, looking up to ask, “Lube?”

Spock confirms, “Lube.” That’s really all that needs to be said. 

So Jim pulls open the drawer, stares at the massive collection of jars, and looks back up at Spock. 

Spock joins him on the bedroom floor. If Jim had his way, he’d go through every one of the jars. But they’ve only got this one night left, and he has no idea if the Mrennenimians—were they around—would let Jim take the rest back to the Enterprise as souvenirs.

To be fair, it doesn’t really matter. He just wants _Spock._ Everything else is just icing on the cake. 

Spock lifts a jar that has _mint coconut_ written across it in messy Federation Standard. That’ll do well enough. Jim shuts the drawer and is on his feet a heartbeat later, Spock right beside them. 

The rain washed off the sand, and what it didn’t, Jim doesn’t care about. He’d rather have Spock _right now_ and a messy bed later than wait and enjoy a clean bed that they’ll still ruin with sweat and writhing. Another kiss, and Jim pushes Spock onto the mattress—Spock instantly rearranges himself to lie on his back, facing Jim, and he shuffles back enough for his entire body to fit. Putting one knee up on the bed, Jim crawls right to him, reaches his mouth, kisses his lips and down his chin, pausing to suck at his throat. Spock makes an absolutely sinful noise, arching up into the touch, and Jim kisses lower, across Spock’s chest to one dusty nipple that he can’t resist plucking into his mouth. A hard suck and he’s back to licking his way to Spock’s navel. At the dark hair disappearing into Spock’s trunks, Jim looks up to ask, “Can I?”

Spock nods without hesitation. Their bond already told Jim exactly how far Spock wanted to go. They’re on the same page, like they seem to be with almost everything, and Jim can _feel that_ to the core. 

He hooks his fingers into the waistband and slowly starts to tug the trunks down, revealing smooth skin and more dark hair and finally the thick base of Spock’s green-tinted cock. Jim bends forward to lock his lips around it while he continues his efforts with his hands. He slowly reveals bit by bit of Spock’s long shaft and kisses each new revelation, until he’s past the tip and it’s springing out, revealing a bulbous head for Jim to lap over. Spock’s hips are now almost trembling, but Jim doesn’t bother to hold them down—he won’t be staying long. He knows if he lets himself have a proper taste, he won’t be able to stop. And he wants them _inside_ one another, not just tongues and feelings. With a begrudging kiss to the head, Jim forces himself to rise back to his knees. Spock bends his legs enough for Jim to rip the trunks right off and toss them aside. Jim thinks that once they’ve done this enough, once making love and _fucking one another_ has become routine, Spock will scold him for such messiness. For now, Spock’s eyes don’t leave Jim’s. 

Jim spends a second to eye Spock’s gorgeous body again, perfect from head to toe. He commits it to memory and vows to restock those logs every night. Then he plucks the jar from Spock’s hand and unscrews the lid, revealing a white paste with hints of green. Spock’s breath audibly hitches, and he shifts one leg like giving room. Jim can’t keep his grin down. 

He scoops a thick glob onto two fingers and screws the lid back on with the rest. Spock takes it from him, reaching back to likely place on the floor—a safer location than the plush bed. Jim’s already moving back down between Spock’s legs, where he presses his fingers between the cheeks of Spock’s ass and his lips against the base of Spock’s dick. He mouths at it while he searches for Spock’s hole, trailing the fragrant lube with him. When he finds his target, he circles the tiny dot before tapping one finger against it. Spock shudders, and Jim dips down to suck one of Spock’s balls into his mouth. Spock’s cock throbs happily against his face, and Spock loses none of his hardness while Jim probes at his hole. Jim’s careful but firm, and soon he’s popping past the muscled brim and sinking into the tight cavern beyond. It’s slickly soft and wondrously hot. Jim mostly focuses his attention on Spock’s shaft, but he has to stop here and there just to watch the slide of his finger into Spock’s ass. When he’s knuckled deep, he squirms about a bit and withdraws to add a second finger, noting thickly, “Stop me if I hurt you.”

“You are not hurting me,” Spock answers immediately, voice just as distracted as Jim’s. Jim would probably know if he was. As Jim returns to licking the cock against his face, Spock’s fingers thread into Jim’s hair, not so much holding him down as just petting him. Jim smiles around his mouthful and scissors Spock wider. 

It takes tremendous effort not to hump the bed, but Jim holds himself back and makes sure he’s stretched Spock enough before he finishes. He means to go right up Spock’s body, but he finds himself kissing the path again, until their mouths are reconnected—Spock seems to have no qualms about kissing a mouth that was just on his crotch, or at least, not when it’s _Jim_ and they’re so wrapped up in this. It’s good for Jim—he doesn’t think he could stay away. He takes hold of Spock’s legs, parting them around himself, and Spock does the rest, spreading them open and wrapping them about Jim’s waist. Heels against Jim’s tailbone, Spock brings his arms around Jim’s shoulders and connects their eyes. 

Jim holds that gaze as he reaches between them to shuffle down his trunks enough to pull out his cock. Spock’s eyes dart to it but return as Jim positions himself against Spock’s hole. Then, fixated on Spock’s face, Jim pushes inside. 

That second the head of his cock pokes into Spock’s body, Jim’s wracked with a moan, and he means to go slowly but can’t—Spock’s hand darts to his ass, squeezing one cheek and pushing him forward—and Jim thrusts his way deeper, the sudden burn and intense pressure making him dizzy—his face presses forward, forehead leaning against Spock’s while Spock gasps some strangled version of his name. Spock guides him deeper, and Jim obeys. He pushes through in stuttering, exquisite jolts, until he’s buried to his balls and reeling, clinging down to Spock as fiercely as Spock clings to him. He’s probably heavy but can’t bring himself to mitigate it, and Spock doesn’t seem to care. Crushed together, Jim rocks his hips and sucks in that overwhelming wave of _pleasure_ , greater than any other he’s ever felt. He’s had plenty of sex, but not like _this_ , with someone he wanted so much, someone he planned to spend his future with, and someone already curled beneath his skin. Their bond only thickens, flashes of Spock’s own pleasure intermingled with his own, flickers of distracted thought flowing between, so caught up in one another that it hardly matters where each word originates. Jim’s _inside Spock_ in every sense. It’s a sense of completeness that he never thought possible.

And he wants _more_ , wants friction, passion, sweat and spit and seed, and he pulls his hips up only to shove them back inside, hard and deep. Spock groans, head tossing back, and Jim grabs Spock’s face to guide him in for another messy kiss, all tongue. He grinds inside, pulls out, slams in, and Spock’s hips rise to meet his. They start to work in tandem. Jim’s thrusts are brutal, unforgiving, trembling with _want_ and getting it every time. His mouth works the same. Spock’s hands slide hard up Jim’s back, fingers digging in, feeling all over. Jim returns the favour. He strokes Spock’s cheek and traces Spock’s arms, clutches Spock’s sides, everywhere he can touch. He kisses Spock and fucks Spock and drinks Spock in, every sound, every movement, the taste and the growing smell and the more and more frantic touches. Everything else falls away, _just the two of them_.

He’s hard as hell and came in that way and Spock’s delicious body only makes him harder. He’s carved from rock with Spock’s dick pulsing against his stomach, calling for attention, but it takes Jim too many thrusts before he thinks to reach down and _touch it_. As soon as his fingers are wrapped around the base, Spock’s squirming under his body, writhing and overheated—his skin is fire. Jim’s is just as bad. He didn’t know he could feel this good. He pounds down into Spock’s body and flattens Spock into the mattress, then jumps both hands to Spock’s hips and turns them suddenly, diving aside. 

He hits the mattress and rolls Spock right on top of him, Spock’s thighs parted around his waist and hands darting out to steady themselves, but their mouths never miss a beat. As soon as they’re stable, Jim returns one hand to Spock’s shaft, the other to Spock’s hip. With Spock now on top, Jim’s hips don’t have as much power, though they still do their best to shove up and grind in. Spock lifts himself and shoves down, helping out. The pace is restored. Spock’s better about staying up on hands and hips and not crushing Jim down, though the weight around Jim’s cock is perfect. Spock rides him like he was born for it. 

And when Spock lifts up, robbing Jim of the ability to kiss those beautiful bow lips, Jim’s given instead the gorgeous view of Spock riding his lap. Hands splaying along Jim’s chest, Spock throws himself into it, lifting all the higher up and shoving all the harder down. The pressure’s wild, dizzying, the view everything Jim could want: Spock’s dilated eyes, Spock’s open mouth, Spock’s flushed skin and arching chest, pebbled nipples, bouncing cock caught in Jim’s hand. Jim pumps Spock for all he’s worth, so near to the edge. 

But the thing that pushes Jim over is Spock’s voice in his head, whispering along his mind in a wave of adoration, _I love you, t’hy’la._

Jim, through Spock, knows what it means, translates it, thinks back just as strongly, _I love you too, beloved._ Their bond trembles, expanding, encompassing so many things, but Jim’s arrow-straight to just their connection. He’ll explore everything else, absolutely every nook and cranny of what Spock gives him, when he’s finished just being _Spock’s_ and making Spock _his_.

Spock comes down to kiss him, and Jim’s already over the edge. He roars into Spock’s mouth, bucking up to splatter Spock’s channel. Then it’s all overflowing, and he’s filling Spock up, Spock’s trembling rear milking it out, sucking every last drop out of him, while Jim pumps Spock to completion. Spock’s spilling before Jim’s finished himself, and the release paints both of their stomachs. Jim’s heart is beating wildly in his chest, and he can feel Spock’s beating just as fast against his side. His breath’s ragged, head thin. There’s nothing in it but _Spock_. 

He doesn’t even know when he stops, doesn’t realize when he started coming down, doesn’t know when he let his hand slip away from Spock’s shaft. Spock stills overtop him, lips still lazily attached to Jim’s. For a while, they’re just like that.

Then Spock lifts up enough to let Jim’s flagging cock slip out, and Spock rolls onto Jim’s side. Jim turns to face him, the room spinning. Suddenly the pitter-patter of the rain outside is thunderous, no longer overshadowed by their own panting and slapping skin. The light dances for it, flickering dimly beyond the window. 

Spock brings up a hand to stroke Jim’s cheek. Jim doesn’t know what to say. They’ve reached communication beyond words. 

Bones will never believe him. Going away for a week and bonding so thoroughly with a mate that they can talk in their heads. But then, that mate is a Vulcan. And likely Jim’s _soul_ mate. If such a thing exists, this is it.

Spock inclines his head forward. Jim meets him, though this kiss is much lighter than all their others—they’re both tired, spent. Jim can _feel_ how satiated Spock is. 

Jim still murmurs against Spock’s lips, “If you give me a few minutes, you can prepare me and return the favour.” Spock slowly stretches into a small smile, a pretty, intimate thing that makes Jim want to freeze this moment in time. 

But Spock sighs, “Another time,” and splays his fingers out around Jim’s face. He asks, “...May I meld with you?” 

It seems a silly thing to ask after all they’ve shared, because Jim thinks Spock could probably do it without even touching him at this point. Jim sucks in enough air for a short yawn and answers, “Yes.”

Then Spock proceeds to make them one. Whatever barriers were left crumble away, and Jim watches a tiny Spock grow up all the way from childhood, sharing the same experience back, until he falls asleep with all of them still joined, most of it irreparable.


	9. Blue

Jim wakes up from a gentle push to his shoulder, but he fights it at first—he’s wrapped around Spock from head to toe and snuggles tighter, holding Spock in his arms. They’re a sticky mess. Spock’s face is buried in the crook of his neck, peacefully asleep. Jim fully intends to join him again. 

But he’s nudged a second time, and he realizes that it can’t be Spock pushing him.

His body wants to whirl around, but it also doesn’t want to let go of Spock, so only his head winds up snapping back, so fast it hurts. He scrunches his face and swears at the pain, while a blue face hovers over him. 

Jim stares at the face, and the face stares back at him. After a minute or two of that, their guide breaks into a smile and announces, “An appropriate physician is now available for consultations, honoured guests. Would you like to begin production of your first egg?” 

A small, diplomatic part of Jim intends to say that they don’t want any eggs.

Most of Jim isn’t a diplomat, and he blurts ungracefully, “Where the hell have you been?”

His outburst stirs Spock, who hazily looks over Jim’s shoulder, only to go rigid and jerk upright. Jim follows to a sitting position, then hastily pulls the blanket over their chests. As he might’ve guessed from all the glass doors, Mrennenimians don’t seem to value privacy much.

The guide simply blinks at them, looking little different than when they first met. She might be, perhaps, a little shinier, glossier, skin brighter than before, but she’s certainly no _worse_ for ware—Jim can’t see a single bruise.

Spock says more calmly, “It is good that you are well.”

“Of course I am well,” the guide answers, looking between them oddly. “Are you not? Is that why you did not join us?”

“Join you?” Jim repeats, wondering if ‘us’ applies to the entire town. “Join you _where_?”

“In the water,” the guide says, nodding towards the window. Then she looks back at the two of them, and, facing their blank stares, she bends forward to prod Jim’s arm. Jim grunts and pulls it back, but her eyes widen. “You did not shed?” she asks, clearly puzzled. 

“Shed what?” Spock asks, devoid of all the emotion Jim’s feeling.

“Your mammal layer.”

Jim glances at Spock, who glances back at him. Clearly, they’re having translation problems again, but seeing their hesitance, their guide brushes on, “Your species does not do that? We had assumed that was why you came to us at this time, the time of our renewal. Naturally, we made sure your home was equipped for such an event, but we were still surprised to not find you in the sea-homes. We had assumed, perhaps, that you had gone off to enjoy alone time given the nature of your early relationship and your obvious attraction. ...Or, perhaps, that you would come close to shore to fornicate, as some species prefer to do so on land. We have a few eccentrics who do so even during the renewal period.”

Somewhere in the flood of news—which isn’t actually that much news but still hits him like a ton of bricks—Jim wonders if that ‘fornication’ on land ashore was what they heard that one time—one alien peak before returning out to sea in the afterglow. 

The first thing Jim wants to know is: “So... you’re all okay?”

“Still a little raw,” their guide admits, rubbing one arm as if for show. “But yes, there were no incidents.”

“So, you all just...” Jim pauses, searching for the right words, “Shed your outer skin, and you’re like... underwater things underneath? And you all just went out to sea? For a week?”

The guide looks blankly at him for a moment, likely trying to process his inelegant language—he has a very small biological understanding of what she’s saying. Helpfully, she points to the top of her head and explains, “When the new outer layer grows and thickens, it clogs the gills so one cannot breathe underwater. This is why we have land-homes. But we must purge that new layer to unclog the gills if we wish to upkeep their use, thus the sea-homes. We spend far less time there, but it is a part of our heritage, and one may still visit while the body is newly raw for a time before the new skin thickens too much.”

Beside Jim, Spock says, “Fascinating.” Under other circumstances, Jim might agree. 

Under these ones, he wishes someone had told them that. But the more he looks at the guide, the less close she looks to apologizing. To be fair, Starfleet probably should’ve done more research before dropping them here.

“You have no scales,” the guide notes after a minute. “Would you like help removing your outer skin?”

That jolts Jim to life, and he says loudly and clearly, “No.”

The guide nods promptly and continues, “Then, if everything is in order and you do not wish consultation on egg production—our next renewal period is in approximately one Mrennenimian year, if you wish to lay your eggs in the water like us—we are now able to provide you with an officiant for your wedding. Naturally, we try to get all our affairs in order before renewal, so nothing is amiss when we return.”

Jim’s head is spinning, but he still manages to admit, “...We owe you a library computer.”

The guide looks puzzled. She nods and turns to go, perhaps to fetch that officiant—Jim hopes it isn’t about to happen right here, while they’re naked and sticky and completely not ready for an audience. But she stops in the doorway, turns again, and asks curiously, “If you do not shed your outer skin, how do you fertilize—”

“We’ll talk about it later,” Jim says, cutting her off, aware his face is probably pink, half from embarrassment and half frustration. The guide nods politely and leaves. 

Jim falls back to the pillow. Spock looks down at him. He feels like he’s run a mental marathon, and it’s all been for nothing. 

He should probably be relieved. He kind of wants to laugh. Instead he mutters wryly, “Whoever compiled the Mrennenimus report needs to be fired.”

Spock says, “Perhaps we should have swum farther out.”

“We didn’t know. And we thought it was dangerous. There were those drag marks, remember?”

“Perhaps they were dragging a waterproof mattress underwater for use in—” But Spock cuts off and looks too embarrassed about saying anything for Jim to bug him about the rest. Jim wonders vaguely if he’s corrupted Starfleet’s prized walking computer. 

With a sigh, he pushes out of bed, reaching for Spock’s hand to pull with him, and he mumbles, “C’mon, let’s have a shower before they try to skin us and make us get married underwater.”

It bothers Jim that the washroom doesn’t have a lock on the door. He finds himself profusely hoping the Enterprise shows up before he winds up murdering the Mrennenimians himself for everything they put him through.

* * *

The minute Jim and Spock are out of the ‘love room,’ aliens converge on them. Their guide is ever present and introduces each new face, all with the same raw, wet look as her—they do, indeed, look more aquatic than he remembers. One or two pinch at his skin, but his yelps and furious looks soon put a stop to that, and none of them dare prod Spock. 

One of their new guests is a clothier who shows them a digital portfolio of loose dresses, thongs and swimming trunks, but Jim and Spock politely request to be allowed to wear their uniforms for lack of any other appropriate options. The clothier looks shocked but accepts it.

Another guest is a makeup artist who consults with them about what elaborate designs she can do them up with, but Jim would prefer no makeup. She’s pushier than the clothier, so they finally let her apply a faint blue eye shadow to Spock and a tiny bit of black mascara to Jim’s lashes. 

A third guest is a chef and asks what they’d like to serve guests. As Jim and Spock have no idea just how many other ‘guests’ have been invited—none of their own family and friends are able to attend—Jim just suggests cake. It doesn’t translate well. After several failed attempts to explain, Jim settles for, “Crackers,” and the chef nods like this is a brilliant choice.

The fourth guest plans to decorate. When Jim asks when this ceremony is supposed to be taking place, his guide leans over the couch to tell them approximately one hour. When Jim asks what the decorator can do in an hour, he looks offended and informs Jim he could have the entire place coated in seaweed by then. Spock politely suggests balloons, a human tradition, will suffice. The decorator laughs at them for a good four minutes and finally leaves to the veranda to, “do his best.”

The fifth guest opens a box full of thin knives and informs them that if their species don’t naturally shed skins, he can help, and Jim shoos that Mrennenimian out of ‘his’ house with barely suppressed rage. Their guide sighs at them as though they’re being unreasonable but finally allows them to move on, old outer shells and all.

* * *

Once, Jim would’ve thought writing his own vows impossible. He isn’t particularly bad at public speaking, but there’s a difference between addressing one’s own crew and a sudden fiancé. Now that he’s known Spock deeper than a week should possibly allow, he thinks he could’ve written decent vows. And he would’ve liked to hear Spock’s. But when Jim quietly suggests personalized vows to their guide, he can’t seem to make her understand what vows are.

So they wind up standing on the veranda, dozens of Mrennenimians sitting down on the beach, directly on the sand, watching them and a particularly tall Mrennenimian wearing a grass skirt and holding a book between them. It’s certainly an unusual setup for a wedding, but then, most things in Jim’s galactic life are unusual. In the end, most of him is so pleased to have the Mrennenimians all back and alive that he doesn’t begrudge them their bizarre usurping of the most important day of his life.

He figures he can always have Scotty remarry them once they board the Enterprise anyway. And he can invite his mother and maybe Peter if there’s time, and Spock can invite his family, and Bones can be Jim’s best man. For now, this should appease Starfleet. 

The Mrennenimian says loudly to carry over the ocean breeze, “We are gathered here today to honour honoured guests in a most delicious union.” Jim, about an arm’s length away from Spock and unable to look away from him, lifts a brow but doesn’t interrupt. Spock looks stubbornly stoic. The Mrennenimian clears her throat. “They are not, strictly speaking, members of our community, and they are, in fact, still in their old skins and are entirely mammals, and one may even have green blood for some reason—”

Their guide, sitting the closest to the veranda, starts rapidly tapping her nose, the movement catching in the corner of Jim’s eye, and the officiant clears her throat again and switches tactics. “...Nevertheless, we attend today as an honourary community, for they have presumably made love in one of our love rooms and, like any of us, will hopefully have as many or no eggs as they wish.”

Spock’s cheeks are definitely fighting a flush. Jim can see it. For his part, he’s mostly fighting not to laugh. One of their audience members breaks in to shout, “Seven! Have seven!”

“Two!” another calls. “One from you and one from us!”

“No, none!” a third jumps in, but the officiant raises her free hand as if to silence them. The book in her other hand is closed, and Jim can only wonder if she saw it on a display of Terran official ceremonies and is therefore trying to mimic it.

“We do not know how many each is capable of bearing or how many adoptable eggs their species have, and therefore we must skip the usual egg-suggestion round,” the officiant announces, to several disappointed noises from the audience. Jim, for one, is pleased with that decision. “They also will not be laying eggs in the sea, so we will not be carrying them out to it. They also do not have dolphins, so there will be no dolphin ceremony. Both have hair atop their heads and therefore we will not perform the sun ritual. We have been told they have organs called ‘spleens,’ which prevent the traditional ingestion of hopeberry juice. They have no family members present to construct a jungle gym, so climbing shall be restricted to the trees of this property. We have been told they are not practiced in the art of birdcalls and so we will not be conducting the feather ceremony. Also, they brought no towels to set fire.”

Another pause, and Jim finally stops looking at his gorgeous husband-to-be to look at the officiant, who seems to need to catch her breath. Their weddings guests looks thoroughly puzzled, and finally, one asks, “Well... what are we supposed to do then?”

The officiant finally opens her book. She skims one page, then a second. Then she shuts it again and announces, “By the power vested in me by Starbeat and the Klingon Empire, I hereby declare them husband and husband.”

Jim’s so stunned by the suddenness that he barely hears an audience member ask, “They change their names to the same name?”

The officiant taps her nose. Then she looks at Jim expectantly.

Jim looks at Spock. It’s probably the least romantic wedding he’s ever heard of, but maybe that’s good for a Vulcan. Except Spock looks as lost as Jim does. Jim has the vague urge to grab Spock for a kiss and do _something_ right, but he doubts Spock would like it.

So he lifts two fingers between them. Spock, after a moment, joins him. The two clasp index and middle fingers, the electricity of their touch not changed at all by their new titles. The warmth beyond that is just a _little_ different. They’re married now. It was a ridiculous ceremony, but it happened, it should be legal in the Federation, and now Spock is Jim’s _husband_. 

Their bond intensifies for a fraction of a second, and it’s long enough for Spock to send into his mind, _I will treat you well, t’hy’la._

Jim can’t stop a smile that no one else will understand. They don’t really matter, when he and Spock are touching like this, locked in their subtle but powerful embrace, the world narrowing down to just the pure attraction between them. There’s a certain comfort in being attached to Spock beyond repute. He doesn’t need to tell Spock the same thing back, because he thinks Spock knows it, and he says instead, _I’m glad it was you. Of all the people in the universe they could’ve sent me, I’m glad it was you._

Spock’s eyes are smiling. His body seems to glow—his aura’s palpable to Jim. If Jim reached out to touch Spock’s face, they would be instantly sharing _everything_ again, the way they did last night.

In a way, that was their bonding ceremony. They linked their minds together, far more intimately than this. Jim saw so much of Spock’s life, and Spock saw so much of his. And they lay there together in bed, drifting in and out of sleep and murmurs of the future. Jim sighs, _I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you._

Spock to his surprise, returns, _Would you like a ring? It is a human tradition, I believe. My mother gave me one for this purpose, though as it was a family heirloom of hers, I did not wish to share it merely for Starfleet’s match if I did not fully care for the person I was with._

Stunned, Jim can only say, _I love you too, Spock._ Spock’s fingers squeeze lightly around Jim’s. Jim finds himself smiling impossibly wider, and he clarifies, _I’d love that ring._ He’ll have to replicate one for Spock when he gets back. No, not replicate. Buy, when they find an appropriate planet. One with amazing jewels. Or maybe one he can forge himself. ...Or maybe his mother also has one somewhere in the attic.

Jim imagines he’ll get the ring later, in private, as Vulcans seem to prefer to do things that way. Before Jim can say anymore, the officiant asks, “Am I supposed to add my fingers to this?” She’s already trying to hold her index and middle finger together like they are, but she seems to be having difficulty with it.

Jim and Spock drop their hands, Spock announcing very plainly, “No.”

The officiant asks, “Is it done?”

Jim looks at her and resists asking the same question back—she’s supposed to be the professional. He only belatedly remembers that she had to cut out almost every part of the usual Mrennenimian wedding ceremony for them. 

Their guide is the one to loudly suggest, “We swim now?”

Looking relieved at the suggestion, the officiant throws up her hands and declares, “We swim now!” All the blue, bald aliens along the beach spring up and go running for the water. The officiant turns, instead, into the house. 

Jim and Spock stand there, looking confused, Jim vaguely tempted to consummate their union right now. 

Their guide comes up onto the veranda and walks between them. She returns a moment later with the chef, both carrying platters of crackers. They offer some to Jim and Spock, which Jim takes but Spock doesn’t, not having utensils present, and Jim doesn’t plan on feeding him with so many witnesses around. The rest of the crackers are brought down to the water.

The officiant emerges a moment later with a box that she opens to reveal four balls the size of those in the ball pit. One is white, one blue, the other two a mix of colours. She proudly tells them, “In the tradition of your home, we give you something old, new, borrowed, and blue. Please add them to your pits.” She thrusts the box forward into Spock’s hands before either can thank her, and then she’s running off to the water. 

Pinned by diplomatic politeness, Jim and Spock sit down in patio chairs to watch their guests swim and eat crackers. Jim pictures the look on Scotty’s face if Jim tried to have him put a ball pit on the Enterprise. Jim would probably be sent straight to Bones.

Eventually, Spock recedes to the house and returns with a tricorder. Jim lets him study the balls while their time is wasted away.

* * *

It takes several hours for all the guests to leave their lot, and though the officiant told the other Mrennenimians not to suggest egg counts, every one still has that for a parting note. Only their guide says, “May you have as many or none as you wish,” after informing them that their ship has called and she’ll help them pack if they want. When they tell her they’ll manage, she tells them they’ll have a difficult time with the sofas if they only have two sets of hands. At Jim’s startled look, she explains that they’ve been given the home and can either leave it or cannibalize it.

Jim’s half fond of the place and half ready to get the hell away from the people who put him through a week’s worth of ridiculous stress. Mostly to get rid of her, he says they’ll return for an anniversary sometime and had better leave it as is. She agrees but informs him that others will be allowed to come and go in their absence per Mrennenimian tradition, and she can’t promise them they’ll return to a full ball pit. They assure her they’re fine with that.

Packing is actually a fairly quick affair. Both only came with one duffel bag and neither spread out around the home. The most time-consuming part is for Spock to return the computer they took from the library to its original condition, though guide said she’d return it for them. Jim helps Spock where he can. 

They walk around the home a final time just to be sure, double-checking each room—it’s unlikely the Enterprise will come this way again for some time. Jim asks while they go through the kitchen, “Do you have any questions about the Enterprise?”

“I saw the Enterprise,” Spock calmly responds, and it takes Jim a second to realize what he means—through their bond, Spock already knows it. Jim imagines none of their adjusting will be too difficult while they have each other.

The living room is the last place they go to. It still has their chessboard set up. Spock stares at it, and Jim walks around to sit on the couch, gesturing for Spock to join him. He asks, “One last game?”

Spock complies.

* * *

It’s dark on the planet by the time Jim flips open his communicator and tells Scotty to do the honours. As pretty as the peaceful planet is, he’d rather see the stars from his bridge’s viewscreen. Side by side, the two of them materialize, the familiar reds and whites of his transporter room coming into focus around them. 

Scotty stands behind the transporter, beaming cheekily at him, Bones at his elbow. Jim half expected the rest of his senior officers to be here, but he’s glad they opted to give him the space. Or maybe Bones opted to have the pleasure of this alone, Scotty insisting on handling the controls. The rest, Spock can meet on his first shift tomorrow, after he’s gotten acquainted with the rest of the ship. 

He’d probably argue that, mind meld or no, he’s been on starships before. But Jim always thinks _his_ ship different from the rest, and it’s good to be back. 

He walks off the platform first, resisting, with great effort, dragging Spock by the hand. Spock follows anyway.

He stands stiffly at Jim’s side before the transporter console, where Scotty asks, “You wan’ someone to take yer bags for you, Captain?”

“I think we got it, Scotty,” Jim says, gesturing sideways. “May I introduce my new husband, Commander Spock. Spock, this is my chief engineering officer, Commander Montgomery Scott.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Scotty says formally, his voice leveling out of the usual Scottish brogue. It must be clear from the get-go that Spock isn’t the casual boss that Jim is. Spock inclines his head in acknowledgement to Scotty but says no more. Jim’s not sure what he expected.

He checks through their bond, just to be sure, _Doing okay?_ And it’s surprisingly easy, even without them touching or involved in an emotional moment, to get that through. 

Spock glances sideways at him and lifts a brow, and that’s all the answer Jim needs. He’s not uncomfortable, just... Spock. 

The tricorder-toting, report gathering, chess-master Spock, evidently, not the snuggly bedroom Spock. Jim has to struggle to keep his grin down. 

Bones looks like he’s having a field day, and Jim eyes him pointedly up and down before noting, “No dress uniform, Bones? Is this the kind of reception you give your returning captain and new first officer?”

Bones snorts, “I figured your new bride would think a big reception ‘illogical,’ but I should’ve known you’d want a party.”

“If there isn’t a cake and champagne waiting in the briefing room, I’ll be deeply disappointed.”

“You know I’ve got a bottle of bourbon on hold, and you can have it right after you finally go in for your checkup.”

“You’d think after a year of that lure failing, you’d give up.”

Bones shrugs, and Jim resists the vague urge to hug him. It’s only been a week, but it felt so much longer, and Jim feels _different_ for it: expanded into two people. When Bones doesn’t give him any more banter, Jim formally introduces, “Bones, this is Commander Spock, in case all that hidden alcohol’s muddled your memory. Spock, my chief medical officer, Doctor Leonard McCoy, or as I call him, Bones.”

“Dr. McCoy,” Spock recites tightly, as though to established here and now that such nicknames will not leave his lips. Jim doesn’t bring up the ‘t’hy’la’ petname. 

“He’s no’ the only one with alcohol,” Scotty throws in, drawing Jim’s attention back. “If you want a proper wedding bash, I’m sure we can arrange one—goodness knows I’d celebrate finally getting back to my engines!”

“Sulu’s in the seat now,” Bones jumps in, before promptly prescribing, “It’s rest for you. You can hit the chair tomorrow.”

Jim nods and sighs, “I hope he doesn’t mind getting passed over for a promotion—you’re already looking at my new first officer.”

Bones doesn’t look surprised and simply counters, “I don’t think Sulu was ready to get married yet anyway.” He lasts almost a full minute before splitting into a grin. 

As good as this is, Jim does want the rest—maybe not real _rest_ , exactly, after living on a beach villa for a week, but he’d like a chance to put his things away, see what belongings Spock had transferred over, and rearrange their quarters accordingly. When he steps towards the door, Bones follows, but Scotty politely falls behind. When the doors open, he heads off to Engineering. 

Jim, Spock, and Bones make their way to the nearest turbolift. Almost everyone they pass smiles at Jim and eyes Spock curiously, but Jim figures he’ll make a formal, ship-wide announcement tomorrow, and for now, he just exchanges smiles and polite nods. As the turbolift whisks them up, Bones informs him, “We had the last first officer quarters cleaned out again, so they should be ready for Mr. Spock to move into.”

The turbolift doors open, and Spock smoothly replies, “That will not be necessary.” Bones stops, looking at him in confusion and shock, but Spock walks right past, keeping pace with Jim.

The two of them go down the hall, straight to the captain’s quarters, Jim drawn home and Spock following his husband and the remnant of melded memories. Outside the doors, Jim explains to Bones, “We’ll share quarters, thanks. Can you have someone bring the rest here?”

Bones’ mouth almost falls open. He frowns for half a moment, but the just-married glow on Jim must counteract it, because eventually, he sighs, and the begrudging look on his face gives away his true pleasure. Spock disappears into Jim’s room, and Jim stays behind long enough to clasp Bones on the shoulder. 

In a rare moment of quiet, serious talk, Bones asks, “Are you happy?”

Jim answers immediately, “More than you could believe.”

“Then it’s good to have you back, Jim.”

Jim squeezes his shoulder once. Then they’re parting, and Jim walks back into his room. It’s a pleasant feeling to hear the door and lock automatically click shut behind him, to see by the standard lights, to sense the gentle hum of the deck plates. Spock’s already unpacking his chess board onto the coffee-table. When he’s finished, he straightens. This is all new to him. But he looks very much like he _belongs here._

He seems to wait for Jim, but Jim’s still frozen in his enjoyment of the moment. So Spock pulls their new box out of his bag, flips the lid open appraisingly, glances around the room, and asks Jim, “Where should I put our balls?”

Jim suppresses a laugh and marches over to kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is technically the last chapter. But I'll post a short epilogue sometime for chapter 10. ;P Thank you for all your amazing comments; it's been so wonderful getting each one. ♥


	10. Epilogue

It’s the exact same coordinates as the first time they came, and their vacation home is just the same as Jim remembers it. No guide comes out to greet them, but they’re presumed not to need it, even though five years have muddled Jim’s memory on certain things and there were still outstanding questions they never got the answers to.

It took five years for their anniversary to even remotely line up with a good time to take a long leave, and since it’s been _five years_ , Starfleet can spare a week of their time. Jim sucks in a breath of pure fresh air, a gentle breeze and lingering warmth, and the soft lull of sounds—a bird here and there, the water in the distance, the occasional trill of humanoid laughter. Five years of wild adventures across the quadrant, and Jim could use this break. 

He’s glad now that Bones declined their invitation to tag along—when he looks sideways at his husband, he knows he’s going to enjoy every minute of this time together. They’re always _together_ , even on away missions where captain and first officer shouldn’t go at the same time, but that’s in the cocoon of their ship with the throng of their crew. Now it’s just the two of them again, and Spock inclines his head to return Jim’s gaze, mouth in a straight line but eyes with that familiar spark. 

Jim sighs, “Home sweet home,” and heads up the walkway.

* * *

They have more things to put away now—proper clothes for the climate, a modified 3D chessboard, Spock’s science equipment for the research he’ll inevitably do, and a few basic things like beach balls and pool noodles Jim intends to share with the natives at some point. Their house looks no worse for wear, though a piece of furniture is different here or there, all with little notes that Spock’s tricorder translates to apologies for various accidents and new offerings. The couch they used to sit on is now upholstered turquoise, because apparently a particular Mrennenimian couple didn’t make it to the love room and wasn’t sure if turning the cushions over was appropriate for humans and Vulcans. 

It’s all the same to Jim, who made sure not to bring any sensitive equipment and so doesn’t mind leaving his things in an unlocked house. The veranda has towels thrown all over it, which Jim assumes are gifts, and once Spock’s tidied the place to his liking, they set out for that breakfast date they never got. 

The square they once journeyed to is much different amongst the bustle of life—Mrennenimians are everywhere, chatting and playing and occasionally staring at Jim and Spock a moment too long; they stick out like a sore thumb in a crowd. A Bolian sits on the fountain in the center but is too enraptured in conversation to pay them any mind, and they pass two Andorians in a gift shop—Starfleet’s welcomed their new allies. Apparently, blue aliens like to stick together. Or at least, Jim attributes it to that until he sees a peach-coloured Grazerite sitting happily on a spare patch of grass between walkways.

Jim doesn’t remember the restaurant they pick. It might be new, or just have a new paint job, or just feel _new_ with everything that’s changed. As Spock sits down across from him at the little round table, it doesn’t feel like anything has or will change with each other. Spock looks almost the same as he did five years ago, but now he looks like he wants to roll his eyes when Jim asks, “Did you miss the local finger-food?” Their dynamics more well-worn, familiar but sharp as ever. Jim crosses his arms over the table and resists taking Spock’s hands in his while they wait for menus. 

Menus never come. Instead, a large Mrennenimian with a wide nose and smile stops at their table and asks, “What may I get you, honoured guests?”

Spock quirks one eyebrow and glances at Jim, who leads their away team of two by asking, “What do you have?”

The Mrennenimian answers, “Food,” without missing a beat.

So Jim, fighting his mischievous grin, says, “Two plates of food, then. Vegetarian.” He winks at Spock like this is a helpful concession, to which Spock doesn’t react. It’s just another adventure.

The Mrennenimian walks back to the kitchen, leaving them in peaceful curiosity. There’s no music in the restaurant, but the tables are mostly full, spaced about two meters apart in every direction, and the bubbly melody of Mrennenimian speech makes for a pleasant backdrop. The glass walls let in a healthy array of light, and lush, potted plants are scattered everywhere. The air is fragrant with blossoms. It’s a beautiful morning. Shifting his boot under the table to lay alongside Spock’s, Jim asks, “So, what should we do first, Commander?”

“Consume ‘food,’” Spock replies, which makes Jim laugh. Spock offers nothing else, so Jim drops it. 

It’s hotter than he remembers, and he rolls up his sleeves while they wait, still in full Starfleet uniform—the blue of Spock’s tunic almost makes him blend in. As Jim sporadically starts tapping Spock’s foot with his, Spock asks, “Perhaps we should use this opportunity to further discuss Mr. Scott’s proposed upgrades to the warp engine.”

Lifting both eyebrows and fully knowing he’ll give Scotty the go ahead no matter what, Jim counters, “Not only are we _not_ going to do that, but I forbid any discussion of work on this mission.” Mission. The word slipped out before he could stop it, but he doesn’t take it back. Starfleet’s always a part of them.

Spock repeats, “Forbid?”

“You have your orders, Commander.”

“Very well, Captain.”

The ease with which Spock takes it makes Jim smile, but of course, he’s known Spock long enough to spot the impish streak beyond the logical mask, the human underneath, the ‘hobgoblin’ Bones always teases Spock about. He sees it coming when Spock rephrases, “As I know humans are fond of hypothetical discussions, I propose we hypothesizes on a fictitious ship wherein our hypothetical engineer may have concocted imaginary but promising upgrades.”

The word ‘imaginary’ sounds so wrong on Spock’s tongue and is clearly just for Jim’s benefit. Which makes him grin all the harder. This is one of those conversations he knows Spock would never hold with anyone else, and he plays along for it. “We have our own ship, do we? And it’s ours? Are we both captains?”

“For the sake of this purely theoretical discussion, I will be the captain, and therefore my wish that we discuss this is tantamount. You, however, are an admiral, and your opinion is both more valuable than my own and entirely prudent.”

Jim interrupts the game to insist, “My opinion is never more valuable than yours, Spock.”

“Allow me to clarify. You are deemed to have the last word by a theoretical institution which governs us.”

“Is it an institution we can trust?”

“It has proven wise before.”

“When?”

“When it chose us for one another and urged us to wed.”

“Fictitiously,” Jim adds, just for the fun of it and wholly pleased that Spock deems their marriage ‘wise.’

“Yes.”

“What was our wedding like?”

“That is off topic.”

“Not necessarily,” Jim counters. “If I’m to believe this hypothetical institution is correct about believing the word of an admiral over the captain who actually knows their ship, I need to know they were right to marry off two strangers and did it properly instead of, I don’t know, throwing them on a random mysterious world for one weird week.”

Spock pauses before announcing, “...The fictitious institution is not infallible.”

“Was it a nice wedding?”

“I believe so.”

“Alright, good enough for me,” Jim laughs, again pleased with Spock’s indirect admission. “I hypothetically authorize your engineer to upgrade your ship.”

“Our ship,” Spock corrects.

“I thought I was an admiral.”

Spock elaborates with surprising ease, “During this discussion we have both been fictitiously demoted; it has been decided you are better confined to captaincy and I to your first officer.”

“I’ve been demoted? Just like that? For what?”

“Inappropriately fraternizing with your peers.”

Jim laughs louder, his foot now stilling atop Spock’s. He’d forgotten he was still stroking Spock’s ankles under the table. But in their strange way, he’s given Spock his answer on Scotty’s proposal, and that seems to be enough, because Spock doesn’t push the game any further. It’s likely for the best, as if Spock had gotten any more imaginative, Jim would feel obligated to report the adorable shenanigans to their ship’s doctor, who would have a field day.

They share a few minutes of quiet, looking at one another and idly about, before their food arrives. Two plates of crackers are set down before them, each round waver sporting what looks like a heart-shaped cut of lettuce glued to it with ketchup.

Jim lifts the first bite to his mouth and decides that’s exactly what it tastes like. Before the Mrennenimian can leave, Jim asks, “Do you have any utensils to eat these with?” It earns him a strange look, of course, but soon enough, they’re brought a set of prongs that look close enough to chopsticks. 

Spock uses them to eat each cracker and declines any comments on the flavour. Jim understands the sentiment. The food doesn’t taste _bad_ , but if he had a menu, he wouldn’t have ordered this. At least Bones, always after him about his diet, probably wouldn’t fret too much over it. Neither of them risks ordering anything else—Jim remembers all too well that this planet is built for misunderstandings. 

Halfway through his plate, Jim thinks to note, “You should’ve brought your lute.”

“Why?” Spock asks, a lettuce-cracker-ketchup sandwich halfway to his mouth. 

“You’d have plenty of time to practice here, which you never get much of on the ship.”

Spock seems to consider this but ultimately decides, “It is a single-player instrument, and you are not so musically inclined. I believe the purpose of this shore leave is to experience our relationship.”

“Thanks for the consideration, but I like hearing you play.”

Spock says simply, “You have expressed a similar sentiment over many things I do. I believe we will find plenty of other things to entertain ourselves with.” Jim can’t deny that.

The crackers aren’t really filling, but when they’re done—Jim first by two—Jim declines dessert and keys their credits into a PADD to pay for it. As they exit the restaurant and their hands brush, a Mrennenimian with a cart across the street calls, “Ice cream!” in garbled Federation Standard. 

Glancing at his husband, Jim asks, “Would it be considered inappropriate fraternizing for a fictitious admiral to buy a handsome captain ice cream?”

Spock answers, “That depends if they have spoons.”

* * *

The bones of their senohpolyx room are exactly the same, but for all Jim knows, every ball in the pit is different. A few of them have scribbling on them—various names, signatures, some words in Mrennenimian that neither of them bother to fetch a tricorder for, and some attempted Federation Standard, all of which bear similar words. Jim picks one up to read aloud, “Have one egg per parent.”

“The Mrennenimian culture should now be integrated enough in the Federation to know that we do not lay eggs,” Spock comments, not bothering to read any of the balls that rise up to his chest. They’re sitting together on a submerged rim, light, plastic balls all around them. It makes Jim feel like a child all over again, but he attempts to retain some sobriety for his husband’s sake.

“There are some egg-bearing species in the Federation,” Jim notes. “Or perhaps they mean it metaphorically, and the method of bearing children is irrelevant to the message.”

Spock doesn’t answer, which tells Jim not that he has no further interest in the conversation, but that he’s thinking. Jim places the ball back into the pile and sighs, leaning back against the rim of the ‘tub’, and enjoys the serenity around them. Their last mission before coming here involved two Klingon scout ships and a Romulan probe, and the new alleviation of stress is certainly appreciated. Under the safe cover of the balls, Jim shifts his left hand, sporting the ring Spock gave him five years ago, onto Spock’s bare thigh. He still gets a jolt of warmth, of solidified connection, and he feels Spock’s breath hitch beside him. They took the scenic route on the way home from town, essentially enjoying a short hike, but it overheated them, and now they’re down to swim trunks in the privacy of their home away from home. Jim can still feel a thin sheen of sweat on Spock’s skin, and his fingers brush through the smattering of dark hair on Spock’s leg while he takes in the silence. He lets his eyes fall closed and wonders if he could falls asleep here, on Spock’s shoulder, and then if it’s possible to drown in a ball pit. 

He senses the apprehension in Spock’s question before it comes. This is something serious. So he opens his eyes and straightens up, hand stilling on Spock’s leg, in time to hear Spock ask, “Do you want children?”

They’ve talked about this before. But only briefly—there are always more pressing things, and Starfleet isn’t built for children. Not yet. Starfleet is their life, and Jim’s ship is _part of him_.

In a way, every person on his ship is like his child, and he says truthfully, “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind, but if I didn’t, I’d be fine.”

Spock nods. Jim doesn’t have to ask Spock the same thing; his curiosity runs from his mind to Spock’s. Even though he knows the answer. “There is a logical way to approach this.” Of course. Spock almost always thinks there is, though Jim’s gotten them into the rare situation where logic means nothing, and Spock knows that by now. “We are both cisgender males of our species and incapable of bearing children. It is unlikely we will ever experience a guaranteed void of assignments long enough to adopt and care for an infant. However, it is not entirely impossible that we will, at some point, find the opportunity to adopt an older child.”

“A little Vulcan,” Jim says, only half joking. Spock looks aside at him, and Jim nods. “It could happen.” If it does, he thinks he might like that. Spock would be an excellent father, and the thought of Spock holding a tiny Vulcan with little pointed ears and the same dark bowl-cut makes his chest glow. But if it doesn’t happen, they’ll be fine. They’ll have their ship. All their crew. Each other. “We’ll live full lives either way.”

“It would, however, be inadvisable to adopt more than two children,” Spock suddenly adds, which brings Jim back to the balls and the Mrennenimians and all their advice. Now he understands why Spock brought it up—if they get sucked into that conversation, they’ll know where they stand.

“I agree. We won’t have time for three.” Poking a few balls around until he finds one in Standard, Jim scans it and concludes, “Sorry to this poor alien—we will most certainly _not_ be having seven.”

“It is remarkable they have time for such large families,” Spock adds, examining the ball in Jim’s hand.

“Well, they are on a pretty peaceful planet, as opposed to voyaging to strange new worlds and seeking out new life and civilizations.”

Dryly, Spock responds, “Perhaps they should spend less time on proposing eggs and more time on perfecting cuisine.”

Jim tosses his head back to laugh.

* * *

A walk, a game of chess, a few finger-fed snacks, and they make their way to the veranda, Jim pausing just before the door to press Spock up against the glass. Chest to chest, he presses his lips to Spock’s and slips his tongue into Spock’s opening mouth, his hands grazing down Spock’s sides, his leg slipping between Spock’s thighs. Spock’s fingers intertwine in his hair and trace down his spine, pausing just at the hem of his swim trunks. The light’s fading, but the silhouette of the stars ghosts lightly around Spock’s edges, all pale skin and dark hair and sheer _beauty_ that Jim’s _so_ grateful for. He tugs Spock’s bottom lips in his teeth, rubs their noses together, and Spock breathes a shallow, “ _Jim_...”

Jim could take him right here. On the floor of their honeymoon house, with their luxurious home on one side and the endless horizon on the other. He could take Spock _anywhere_ , and it would always feel right. It always does. Jim’s had Spock on a dozen worlds. There was even a short stint on Vulcan, where Spock lay Jim down amidst his mother’s gardens at night, with T-Rukh gleaming overhead and Spock’s parents peacefully retired. They were good to Jim. They were nice people. Sarek’s handsome, Amanda’s lovely, they both accepted Jim and Sarek was stern but thinly approving with Spock while Amanda teased him. Spock kissed Jim against the desert sand and they made love with a wild storm of a mind-meld that would’ve put any full-Vulcan to shame. 

Jim’s mother loves Spock. They only met once. But she thought he was hilarious and could see how happy Jim was, and after their dinner, Jim tucked Spock into his childhood bed and rolled on top of him and ground him into the mattress.

His favourite is the captain’s seat. He’s had Spock there four times. It’s always a struggle to get the bridge clear, and there are so few times when they can risk it, but they have, and Jim’s had Spock ride him there, sat in Spock’s lap, knelt at Spock’s feet and fucked over Spock’s science console. But this was where it first happened. This planet, this house. Spock’s as intoxicating five years later as he was then, and Jim _burns_ to join their bodies.

But Spock murmurs against his lips, “We will have plenty of other time for that, _t’hy’la_.”

A week isn’t enough. Jim still nods, their foreheads pressed together. He slips past Spock and opens the glass door, and Spock follows. The night sky is dazzling. 

They can hear others swimming in the distance, splashing and shouts, but none close enough to see beyond specks, and Spock slides his fingers over Jim’s while they stroll past the veranda. Across the sand, Jim takes Spock’s hand properly. He squeezes it, and then they’re walking into the water, cool now but still pleasant. A large shark-like fish wanders past them, another following, but it still feels like they’re the only two beings in the world. Jim guides Spock deeper step by step. 

When they’re chest-level, Jim has to let go, using his arms to wade. Spock maneuvers in front of him and leans forward; Jim leans the rest of the way. A short kiss, and they part. Spock’s dark eyes roam over Jim’s body, lust broiling underneath them, but they manage to resist. Their bond sizzles. 

It’s nothing like swimming on the pool aboard the Enterprise. Maybe it could be, if they introduced harmless fish and dimmed the lights and set stars across the ceiling and locked out everyone else. This is still different. They swim around each other in little circles, not really doing anything, just existing within each other’s spheres, and then Spock starts to swim deeper out and Jim follows. 

They do a few laps, until Spock spots a lizard to examine, and then a snake, and then they find themselves exploring the ocean floor as deeply as they can, though the lack of light makes it hard. Perhaps they’ll come back later with scuba gear and lights and cameras. Instead, they do what they can, communicating in their heads instead of voices, and the dim, surreal, wavering beauty of the underwater world sets the mood.

Vulcan kissing, sliding their two fingers along one another, is easier underwater than the human version. They do both anyway.

* * *

It’s completely dark and they’re still swimming, but they’re nearer to the shore when their neighbours first approach them. Three Mrennenimians come from one side, two from the other, and some say, “Goodbye, honoured guests!” in words Jim can understand, but others speak a garbled language beyond his comprehension.

He waves to them while they drift away, others in the distance tapping their noses before imitating his hand gesture. Spock stiffly nods. Every alien they see looks shiny, fresh, _new_ , and across the beach on the neighbour’s lot, two adult Mrennenimians drag the discarded skin husk of a skittish child back to the house, while the child kicks about the water and waits for their return. 

Jim and Spock stay out in the water for the departure, and it’s more than just their neighbours that go—others appear between the trees from more inland homes, all bidding their leave. It’s a relief to _see_ them go this time, to know that nothing’s wrong. Several offer to wait for Jim and Spock to shed their skins and follow, but Jim and Spock, of course, decline. 

When they’re finally alone, when it’s been half an hour and no one else has come, they wander back up the sand. Jim feels a little wrinkled but wonderful, and he suddenly can’t wait for the solar lights of their home: he wants to see Spock in proper lighting, eye every line and curve, dripping wet and naked. Spock senses the thought and turns back to look at him, the feeling clearly mutual. 

They use the towels already outside, Spock having neatly sorted and folded them. Jim grabs one on top and uses it to ruffle through Spock’s hair, then dab at his face, his shoulders, run down his strong chest and over his biceps. While Jim drags the towel down Spock’s stomach, he can’t help leaning in to lick over Spock’s lips, and Spock mutters, “You plan to make me wet again?”

“I plan to try all those flavours we never got around to,” Jim quips, having just remembered the flavoured lubes, hopefully still there. He nips at Spock’s jaw as he dries Spock’s hips, and then he trails his kisses down Spock’s neck and collarbone while he towels off Spock’s thighs. By the time he’s drying Spock’s calves and feet, he’s licking at the jut of Spock’s hipbones. 

Spock’s hands in his hair tug him back up. Another kiss, and Spock takes another towel, returning the favour. He’s less oral as he cleans Jim but more efficient, just as attentive. They’re making their way back into the house when a final Mrennenimian sprints through the trees, shouting back at them, “Many or no eggs to you, honoured Wulcans!” Then the alien’s swimming rapidly off into the water, and Jim’s laughing their way inside. 

They hold hands all the way to the love room, ready for the private, intimate week ahead, with five years’ worth of pent up love.


End file.
